Vows
by x XRoweenaJAugustineX x
Summary: What if Jon had left the Wall that night and had gone to help Robb? Jon/OC. I OWN NOTHING be forewarned that I have a colorful vocabulary!
1. Prologue: Dark Days

**SUMMARY:::** Maeve is a Septa (priestess), taken her vows, but when war breaks out, she is sent to Robb Stark's camp to care for the few unfortunate children and mothers caught up in war, but then Jon comes down from the wall and she finds herself torn between her life and vows as a Septa, and Jon Snow. Jon faces similar torment.  
><em>Also, I don't know if Septa's can get married or have to be celibate, but in here they do. They're like nuns.<em>

_Also-I own SQUAT! (((except Maeve she's mine.))) _

_A/N-this has be edited since July, nothing too big, so you don't have to read_

**Vows**

Vows were what shaped her life.

Her father, Eli, had sworn vows and oaths to a lord that had betrayed him and her mother, resulting in orphaned state.

Maeve remembered the screams, her father's guards, their families, her uncle, her mother, her father. She remembered the pain in her leg from the arrow that pierced her as she tried to run into the woods. Even now she didn't know why the noble spared her when he had no problem killing the other children of her guard's families.

The murdering Lord ordered one of his wife's handmaids to take her to the local whore-house to be degraded and humiliated; however, the handmaid had taken mercy on the little five-year-old and dropped her at the small, humble sept in the center of a nearby village. It was there, that Maeve lived and learned as a septa, a priestess of the Seven Gods.

Maeve hadn't really had a choice in the matter, it was expected that she become a septa and there was no way to fight it. It would shame her to fight the people who had taken her in, clothed her, fed her, housed her, educated her, so she did not fight.

At twelve she vowed to spend her life worshiping and serving the Seven. She was not a septa yet, but vowed to go through the trials to become one. At sixteen she completed the trials and obtained her title as Septa. That night she was anointed with the Seven holy oils and took her official vows, to remain loyal and true to the Seven, to love and serve no one else but the Seven and the sept and to help those who needed aid.

It would be years before she could go out into the world. A young septa was deemed too inexperienced to be given a job anywhere else but the sept where she pledged her loyalty. Before she would act as a governess to a noble's child or provide comfort to dying men or heal the sick, she was to maintain the library under the watchful eye of Septon Phillip.

But her years of service to the library of the sept was cut short when Robb Stark, the son of the late Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, called the banners against the South.

A breeze suddenly chilled over her skin and she instinctively curled closer to Jon's side to deflect the gooseflesh prickling against her body.

The weight of her vows hung heavy on her chest as she watched his profile as he slept. He hasn't gotten much sleep. The fear of invasion was enough to keep everyone in the camp awake well into the night before the body's needs overtook the fears of the mind.

Shame did not batter her as ruthlessly as it had their first time together but it still weighed heavily enough that it bit at her. Jon's presence in her life made her question the gods she so piously fallowed. If the gods wanted her celibate all her life, why did they send Jon Snow in her path? If they didn't want her to love, why did they give her a heart? Why did they make this feel so natural and good if it was so wrong?

She bit anxiously at her thumb nail as a soft breeze lifted a strand of auburn hair to caress her cheek. Septas do not show their hair; their womanly looks could inspire lust in men and with lust came temptation. For some reason it had not mattered to her when Jon first saw her hair—possibly because it hadn't meant anything then, she didn't believe anything would develop into anything.

When word of war spread across the land, life became very complicated for everyone in the sept. Some wanted to stay, withhold the temple from any and all soldiers and others wanted to aid them, to pick a side to serve.

Maeve wanted to stay, but in the end it was decided that those who wanted to go should go, but the others would stay. She was set on staying, but old Ysilla had plans otherwise. Ysilla was a septa, a teacher and mentor to the young, close to her ninetieth name day and wiser than any within ten miles. She ordered Maeve to ride with a group that was headed to the North to aid the weak and helpless. With the old woman's crooked hands, frail body and that unseeing left eye of hers, she was the most commanding sight in the entire sept.

Maeve grudgingly obeyed.

The ride was long and tedious. The cart that they had brought along, filled with fine fur blankets, healing herbs, food and simple hunting traps for game, was also occupied by the elder Septa and Septon's. With their escort of ten village men going off to fight for the north, Maeve was deemed capable and young enough to ride her own horse. Each day, she slid off her mare with an aching, sore bottom, blistered hands and raw thighs. Maeve was only too happy when she lay down by the fire with her wounds dressed with soothing herbs only to have to do it again for hours again the next day. By the middle of the trip, the older people she traveled with granted her a kindness and let her ride in the back of the cart.

When her group arrived three weeks later, they were not received with a welcoming party. The army believed that they were Southern spies in disguise. Theon Greyjoy's mouth did not help matters. When a black haired boy with a white dire wolf growling at his side spoke some reason to the mob of armed men around them, Theon Greyjoy managed to get them all tense again with a single sentence.

Finally after a good twenty minutes of arguing, Robb Stark's army accepted that they were who they said they were and dispirited back to their duties. After most of the men had gone away, the boy with curly black hair came forward, his albino wolf trotting behind him.

"I'm Jon Snow." his brown eyes gazed across the lot of them. A few of their eyes narrowed ever so slightly at his last name. Snow was the name Northern bastards took. "I'll take you to Robb." Maeve wanted to ask where the young Lord was when all the chaos was erupting, but refrained. They'd just escaped being killed in a riot, now was not the time to question their Lord.

Her group was then assigned according to Robb Stark. Maeve was allocated to Allyria Waters, a withered mother of five young children whose husband was killed in a raid on their village. They and the others from that village were now refugees traveling with Robb Stark's army. Her five children, ranging from fifteen to a year old, kept her busy for the next week so she hadn't had time to bathe.

The day he saw her was a week after her party had arrived. The men and refugee women and children had grown to trust the Septon's and Septa's, but still their eyes followed her as she made her way through the temporary camp to where Allyria had told her to wash up.

It was late afternoon, the sun just starting to set. The forest surrounding the camp was thick and the low riding branches made it harder to stay straight. The river she came across was wide but not very deep.

After looking around to be sure that no one was watching, she carefully stripped off her dress and unfastened her hair scarf. Her auburn hair curled wildly after she freed it from the braid.

The water was cold as she waded through it in her shift, it made her shiver. She washed quickly and thoroughly, saving her hair for last. After she was satisfied, Maeve stood atop a rock along the bank. Using the small cloth Allyria had given her as a towel, she wiped off the water from her shoulders.

Suddenly a twig snapped, shattering the silence she had enjoyed. She squealed, dropping her towel into the water and snapped her body around, reaching for her dress she rested atop a nearby rock as she did so. Covering her body with her dress, she eyed up Jon Snow, his brown eyes wide and his cheeks red.

For one very long second, they stared at each other, frozen. Maeve became very self-conscious of the fact that her hair was unbound and that she looked like a normal girl, not a septa. That was dangerous, if men see you as a girl and not a part of a holy order, they might ignore the fact that you are. It didn't help that behind this dress that the only thing shielding her body from his gaze was a very thin, nearly see-through, shift.

"I-I'm sorry, milady." Jon stuttered as he quickly turned away and nearly ran back into the woods.

For a long time, Maeve stood there stunned. He was a bastard...he was suppose to be wanton and a cheat and a liar and amoral. Not stutter and run when a girl, nearly naked and alone was presented before him. Maeve dressed quickly, rebound her hair and hurriedly made her way back to Allyria's small tent before as the sun went down. She was confused on Jon Snow's actions for the rest of the night.

From beside her, Jon groaned and shifted in his sleep, tightening his grip around her waist. She had to smile as she recalled after that.

The camp was large so Maeve hadn't seen Jon Snow since the river. After some of the refugee women had gossiped as they sat together making supper, Maeve had learned that Jon Snow was Lord Eddard Stark's bastard, Robb Stark's half brother. Not only that, but he had taken the black, swore his vows and then left in the dead of night! _Bastard boys are oath breakers; why does that surprise me_, she thought.

A week later, Maeve had finally had enough of Allyria's children going to bed with growling bellies and sadder eyes. She stormed from the tent at first light and marched to Robb Stark's tent. He, Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy and a few other men were outside, talking to one another about battle plans and whatnot. She blushed as she spied Jon, but swallowed her hesitance and walked up to them.

Boldly, she demanded Robb ration the food more fairly to Allyria, personal bitterness adding to the venom in her tone. She despised Robb Stark for causing all this. A war between the north and south would divide everyone in the middle, and all those who didn't swear fealty to the new child King would be condemned as traitors and executed. The Lannister's and Robb Stark and their war pitted everyone between two pointy swords.

Not only that, but he unknowingly tore her away from her sept, from her sisters! That was not easily forgiven, although she chastised herself for such a sinful feeling as wrath.

Jon watched her, surprised by her boldness. He had never seen such a young woman in a septa's garb before that the first time he'd seen her, he too had questioned whether they were truly from a sept or spies.

He could see she was quite beautiful, even more so close up. When her party arrived that day she was behind the others, covered from his view. By the river he was farther still, but he could tell she was quite lovely, her auburn hair long and wild. Up close, her body was covered and her hair was hidden, she was gorgeous.

Although her tone was sharp, Robb did not take offence and assured her he would take care of it.

Maeve didn't know how it happened, but Jon became her friend. He seemed to always be there when she needed help, when she stumbled over war props or one of Allyria's younger children got away from her. During these times, they'd make small conversation and by the third month of her being there, she and Eddard Stark's bastard had acquired a friendship.

He was sweet to her and, never having had a man's attention like this before, she was not especially uncomfortable with the boundaries of her vows. Her former traveling companions looked down on her friendship with Jon Snow and she herself was torn. He was a bastard, people of the sept did not approve of bastards. Yet, she still conversed with him freely and when he was free from war efforts or meetings, and when they were virtually alone (Allyria's children under ten) they had come to call each other by their first names.

She remembered the night he first kissed her. She did not know what had possessed him to do it or what had left him, but he had.

After Allyria and her children were blissfully put down to rest and most of the men and other women and children had gone to sleep, Maeve had gone out for a brief stroll to help wind herself down when Jon happened upon her, sitting on a fallen tree not far from the camp. The celebration feast the camp had held was as grand as it could be with music and dancing. Little Sybelle, Allyria's youngest daughter, had demanded that Maeve dance with her all night. It was difficult to say no to the little child.

Jon settled besides her, facing the opposite way into the woods, and they sat and talked a while. Somehow through their innocent conversation, it had shifted to family.

Maeve remembered the quiet voice she had used when she talked about her family, telling him the shameful truth that she didn't even remember what her mother's name was, what she looked like. That she only really knew her family through the stories told to her by the elder Septa's. She also remembered the shame that washed over her at his story. He had a father with a wife and family but no mother, he never knew her. His stepmother hated him and he had never been welcome in Winterfell. She may not have remembered her mother's name or what she looked like, but she remembered her warmth, her love. She may have been orphaned but at least she got a new family. She had no right to be sorry for herself.

Jon told her as such.

Anger and embarrassment flared thorough her and soon they were in an argument, a stupid, meaningless fight. After their hurtful words had been spat, silence engulfed them. It was long and drawn out. When she realized that neither of them would apologize first, she abruptly stood up and turned away, stalking back to the camp still seething.

She stealthily slipped into the tent and saw the children's sleeping mats unoccupied and looked to Allyria. Sometime during the night, all five wayward children crawled over to their mother and curled up next to her.

That little sight made her smile and made her want to weep. They were scared to be away from Allyria during the dark night, that raid that had taken their father had scarred them.

Long after she'd curled up on her own sleeping mat near the entrance of the tent, she heard footsteps outside.

"Psst! Maeve!" she heard Jon whisper. From their spot by their mother, Gerold and Lyla, the eldest boy and girl, stirred in their sleep. Without thinking Maeve shot up from her spot and dashed out of the tent, rushing toward the side where she had heard Jon.

"Are you bloody mad?" She hissed at him as she towed him away from the tents.

Once they were far enough away, he spoke again, surprising her with an apology. Jon Snow did not strike her as the type of man to apologize, but he was one to know when he was wrong. Even though she was angry with him for snapping at her, he was not wrong for it. It was reasonable that he snap at her, though she did not appreciate it. She told him that.

With soft, sad smiles at one another all was forgiven. She did not really know who had initiated it; perhaps it was mutual, perhaps not. Whatever had happened it didn't matter because in an instant, Jon's lips were on hers. The thing that damned them was that she didn't push him away, she didn't scream, she kissed him back. They were hooked after that.

It had been so pleasant at first, warming her from the inside and unleashing butterflies in her belly. Then reality began to bombard her with its facts and all the unpleasant emotions that came with it followed suit. So, in that likeness of fear, Maeve did the only thing her body could think of: she hit him.

She slapped him across the face and after a second of astonishment, she turned and ran back to Allyria's tent.

Maeve let out a small giggle at the memory. Before it hadn't been funny but after their anger and surprise had vanished, it became a fond memory they shared.

Abruptly her smile vanished. She should be like this. She was a woman of the gods, a septa! Every time she saw the other septa's and septon's he heart dropped in guilt as well as sadness. She vowed to herself to a life of chastity, a life devoted to the gods and her sept. She was not to be made some love-sick girl with her legs spread wide. What had she become? An oath breaker? Was she still a septa when she was soiled so?

That small little spark that was her anger ignited into a full flame. What seemed to add to her fury was that Jon had taken vows too. She shouldn't have been the one who kept them in check, he should have left her alone and none of this would have happened. He was a man of the Nights Watch, sworn to be celibate and love no one for as long as he lived. _To take no wife, to father no children_. How dare he bewitch her like this! How dare he allow himself to get caught up with her?

Old Ysilla's face appeared in her mind then. It made her want to break something.

She stood up, quickly grabbing her shift which had been discarded carelessly to the side and roughly pulled it over her head. Upon her sudden movement, Jon awoke, watching as she yanked up her dress and clumsily tried to do up the laces.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Without turning back to look at him, she answered in the iciest tone she could manage, "Leaving. You're familiar with it aren't you?" Jon licked his dry lips. She had been doing this their last few meetings; she'd leave as soon as they were done and cross with him. It was time to demand a real reason.

"Are you doing this again?" he asked as he stood up, lacing his trousers as he did so. This time she turned around, trying desperately to do the knots up the back of her dress.

"What?" she snapped.

"The anger. You've done this these last few months. What is it?" He tried to be as kind and as calm as possible, but he quickly grew frustrated. The stress of battle, the guilt of his broken vows, his confusion over his relationship with Maeve, it was slowly taking its toll on him.

"I guess I have a right to, since I've become nothing but a common whore." she snapped, her shaking hands still desperately trying to do up the laces and tie the knots. Tears began to sprout in her eyes.

Jon could've rolled his eyes at her foolishness, if he wanted a slap in the face. "You're not a whore." He assured her tiredly.

"I might as well be! I broke my vows, I let you ruin me and I _enjoyed_ it! Damn it!" she yelled, finally giving up on trying to tie up her dress. She held her head in her hands as she tried to blink away her tears. Jon tried to move forward to help her lace up the dress, but she wretched her body away from his grasp.

"Don't touch me." her voice was hard and slow, shaking with mixed emotions, her face flushing in anger and the tears finally falling down her pink cheeks. He watched her a moment, both of them glaring at one another.

"I broke vows too, Maeve. Don't think that I don't feel the same."

"Yes, yes you did. You broke vows to the Nights Watch, but you tell me Snow didn't you break your vows before you laid with me? You abandoned your post." He was silent. "Yes, you see that's why I'm angry. You don't have a bloody reminder of your betrayal watching you every day!"

They were both very silent the next few moments. Jon was at loss of what to say or do. He couldn't hold her; she'd fight him and fight him hard so he'd probably end up with a red hand shaped mark on his cheek. He couldn't say anything that she could not twist around. After the end of five, very long and tense seconds, Jon decided to hold her, but she spoke before he could move.

"Jon I'm going to go back to the sept." she stated in a mechanical voice, trying to leave no room for negotiation.

"What?" he demanded.

"Yes. This has long since gotten out of hand and I think it would be best if one of us departed. Since you cannot, I will." It was a bit odd watching her, eyes glassy, face flushed and wet, her dress loose on her form from the undone laces, a small purple mark on her neck from his kisses.

She was serious though, that was plain to see. In her steely grey eyes he saw the strict, dutiful, emotionless woman she portrayed to all others but not him. This angered him further; he hated it when she shut him out like this.

Maeve's fortitude nearly broke at the rising anger she saw in him. He would never hit her; he never hit a woman or a child. She nearly submitted because she didn't want to fight with him, she wanted him to understand, to just let her go. To spare her.

She wanted to tell him that at times, she could not stand the other Septa and Septon's condescending looks that fitted across their faces when they saw her talking to him. She wanted to tell him that the disgrace of breaking her vows bit at her at night and made her lose sleep and not only that, but when shame _didn't_ rack her with guilt, did she feel wrong.

But mostly, she wanted to tell him that she could not bear the grief of knowing that what they had could and would never bloom.

Maeve had never dared herself to dream in the beginning, she knew that a life with Jon would never be possible, not only because of their vows, but how would they live? Being a bastard he was entitled to nothing, being an orphan whose parents' belongings were pawned off, she would get nothing. Also, Jon did not want a child that would bear the bastard name Snow, so what would they have done about that? Even if they over passed all of this in some way, who were they to assume they would be together all their lives happily? The Seven worked mysteriously and could twist their future into a dark one if they chose to.

Unfortunately, one night as she lay dozing at his side, she had dreamed of a life with him and what she saw she could not forget. In that life they were happy, four beautiful curly haired children with his black hair and brown eyes running around, smiles that were still genuine and loving, touches that still made her quake and tingle. She longed for it, wished for it, but it pained her that it would never happen.

She loved him and if she told him these truths, it would make haunt him too. So she kept her mouth shut and let him speak.

"Mae, you cannot go back to the sept, it'd be suicide!" He watched her demeanour begin to chip away. "The Southerners are too close, you're safe here." Jon said his tone a bit softer and gentler.

"I'll just be more careful." she uttered. He glared at her sadly, almost pleadingly. She was honestly considering leaving Robb's camp and going off to a sept that probably isn't there anymore? And if it is, it would be occupied by Southern troops and they would know where she came from. It sickened him to think of what they'd do to her for information. The thought filled him with new conviction.

"Maeve, are you so big of a fool that you'd get yourself killed to manage a few dusty books—"

"They're _not_ just a few dusty books!" she objected fiercely.

"—I won't let you. I love you too much." She stared at him with her unreadable face.

"I am not your wife, Jon," she remarked bitterly. "You cannot command me." That panged both their hearts. Jon wanted a life with her too but, like her, he could not see that ever happening in this life.

"Even so, Robb couldn't let you. It would risk the camp if they interrogated you and succeeded in obtaining information." Maeve was quiet for a long moment.

"Well that settles it then doesn't it?" she muttered, looking down at her bare feet before looking up into his beautiful brown eyes. "Leave me be from now on Jon. Don't approach me, don't talk to me, don't watch me. We cannot continue this." her eyes began to grow blurry once again, but she quickly blinked them back.

She turned away then, into the dark forest with her dress still unfastened in the back, and her scarf swaying in her arms as she walked. Jon remained there stunned, and burned from the order. The camp was large but not so large as to aid in them avoiding each other until the refugees found a new, permanent village. Sooner or later they'd come across one another and be filled with temptation once again.

The sounds of his feet were cushioned against the forest floor, and the wind was chilling against his skin, though he had put on his under-shirt and boots. Maeve had gotten quite far in only five minutes.

When he saw her figure, still dark in the early morning daybreak, he ran faster. Before she knew what was happening, he seized her upper arm, turned her around and roughly pressed his lips against hers.

Weakly she pressed against his chest, before yielding to him, gripping his hair and pulling him closer, both their vows forgotten again. When he pulled away, they were both breathless. He rested his forehead on hers, his palms cupping her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, her hands resting on his biceps.

"I love you Maeve. I would never hurt you, cheat you, or abandon you." he promised. She opened her eyes. Her lips began to tremble and her eyes softened into sadness once again and it made his heart ache. Her hands trailed down his arms and to the hands that were framing her face and gently gripped his wrists.

"My heat is yours Jon." she promised. She pulled away from his embrace. "But my life isn't." Maeve pulled away fully then, her body slipping away from him and into the dark forest and left him standing there.

She moved through the trees as best as she could with bleary eyes and a throbbing heart. Right before the woods sloped into a grassy clearing where the current camp was located, she pinned up her hair and retied her scarf. Her dress was still unbound and she could never retie it now, so she quickly moved back to Allyria's tent, grateful everyone was asleep yet, even the watch at their posts.

The dress crumbled in a soft heap on the grassy floor. Allyria and her children were right where Maeve had left them not three hours before: curled up together in a deep yet uneasy sleep. Carefully she pulled back the simple fur blanket that covered her sleeping mat and curled up there, wiping the tears from her eyes. Even under the furs the cold bit at her like it should have in the clearing where she laid with Jon.

Although she had begged him to leave her be, one way or the other they'd meet again, weather they'd seek each other out mutually or happen upon each other by chance. They'd bush it off but inside feelings and duty would battle.

For Maeve, it was so hard to stay away from someone she held so close to her heart. Jon had already damned himself by leaving the Wall...really what harm could loving Maeve do to him that he already hasn't done to himself? It's hard to stay away from the one you care for so deeply, especially when they are so close. Temptation was so sweet and taunting that it made them forget everything but each other.

She had taken vows once to love no one and to remain a maid for her entire life. But how can the gods expect that of her, when they sent Jon Snow in her path? Why did they make it so that her heart called out painfully for him whenever he left for battle?

Her ponderings kept her awake until Sybelle stirred and bounced over to her to wake her.

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><p>okay, this was my first story, <strong>please<strong> be gentle. Read and review!


	2. Chapter 1: Relief

**Relief**

**4 months later...**

Her breathing was ragged, her dress was bunched around her waist and her heartbeat was erratic. His hand tangled in her hair as hers tangled in his and her legs were locked around him in the most provocative way.

It was the most amazing feeling of joy she'd ever felt, having him back in the camp, safe and sound.

When she saw him, walking behind his half-brother and their wolves trotting behind them, her heart stuttered in her chest in relief that nearly brought tears to her eyes. At first, she just wanted to talk to him, that's what she told herself at least as she pulled him into the woods as their victory feast was held. But as she watched him carefully, the need for reassurance grew too great to just see him and hear him, she needed to _feel_ him.

The rough tree bark dug into her back painfully as Jon pressed her harder against it but she didn't mind. Jon didn't seem to mind that her teeth had drawn out blood from his bottom lip. Their lips were rough on each others, teeth knocking together, hands leaving red marks on their flesh. Happiness, relief and love mixed together in a confusing and heated concoction that left them breathless.

* * *

><p><em>Near a month ago, a group of scouts and foot soldiers returned with grim news. A large southern horde fast approached their camp, the Lannister's flag flying proudly in the wind. This news hung like a dark cloud over the camp, even the usually lively children had quietened at the adults' solemn looks. <em>

_Robb Stark, King of the North, was at loss of what to do. The refugees his army carried with them numbered well over two hundred and this camp had become a mobile village to them. Would go into battle like always and leave the women and children defenceless? He would need the better half of this army to defeat the southerners and the other half to go around them and cut off their retreat. _

_Sleep did not come easily that night. The camp was so deathly quiet it was almost deafening. _

_At first light, Robb had finally made his decision: to lead his army away while the women and children escaped into the northern thicket to find a safe haven until the northern army returned. Lady Catelyn Stark was none too happy when her son insisted that she accompany the refugees, but ultimately left with them all the same._

_Allyria and Maeve were awoken not long after the decision was announced; an armed soldier poked his head through the tent's flaps and shouting, "Get it together, women! You leave in an hour!" _

_The early sunlight barely made it past the white clouds. The snow crunched under their boots and fog escaped their mouths and red noses as they hurried. The homeless villagers quickly assembled their few belongings into their haversacks, and hurriedly helped pull down the tents most of them shared. _

_As Maeve helped Allyria and Gerold pull down and roll up the tent, Theon Greyjoy rode by on his chestnut horse and barked orders at all the refugees that could hear him. _

_There was no fondness between Maeve and Theon Greyjoy. Maeve wasn't really sure what she did, but whatever it was had earned his contempt. He hadn't seemed too fond of the other septa and septon's either. Perhaps, she thought one day as he mocked Septon Horus, he is not of the Faith of Seven. _

_Even so, she bit the inside of her cheek as he shouted at them to hurry, making no move to help the weakest of the weak. Instead of calling him obscene names that neither a woman nor a septa were supposed to know (she wasn't even sure where she knew profanity), she went over to Lyla, a girl no more than twelve, and took baby Tobias from her knobby arms._

_The camp was alight with frenzied activity, both in the preparation of battle and escape. _

_Maeve had not come across Jon or his albino dire wolf, Ghost. They'd gone off earlier, with Robb and his guard when the sun was still down. For this Maeve was grateful...it would not do well for her or him if she saw him now only to throw herself in his arms and beg him not to go. _

_When the news reached their ears that the horde of southerners was near, she knew that Jon would ride off to fight at the side of his brother, he always did. Great fear and unease washed over her in waves as she thought of Jon on the battlefield, southerners in their red colours and gleaming armour around him, swinging at him with their murderous weapons. _

_Every time he left for combat this feeling would arise and claw at her until he came back. It was foolish to worry; Robb won every battle and Jon always came back. What was there to worry about? That he'd come back with a scratch? She was neither his mother nor his wife so why should she worry? Ghost protected him on the field. _

_This time, the Lannister's army was too large to not be worried about. It seems that the old Lord Tywin was waiting to catch them off guard with his small attacks and this time they were approaching from the east, rather than the south. The sensation of oncoming danger was too strong to be ignored or to be irritated by. Dread had locked tight on her heart in its steely, icy grip and would not let go. It whispered disturbing thoughts to her, wondering if he'd come back maimed or even come back at all. _

_Somehow, through her fear and unease, she managed to do her job; she tended the Waters children and made Allyria stand up when she sensed the older woman wanted to lay down and never get up. But she did so with none of the warmth she usually presented. Her mind was elsewhere._

_Hiking in the snow could only get their wagons so far. By the time the sun was starting to set, the small encampment had taken root deep within the thick forest of the north. Here, the foliage was too profuse to put up even the smallest of tents and too dangerous to start a large fire that would warm more than two people. _

_Even Lady Stark only got a bit more coverage than the rest of them, a pristine fur blanket that had not been affected by time and a tarp that shielded her and the one guard she was permitted from the harsh winds. The rest of them were not so lucky but she willingly shared what shelter she could with young children and their mothers. _

_The next six days were difficult. With very little shelter, the most helpless of the refugees faced the freezing cold night and day, with snows that were as unpredictable as the birth of a quickening child. Whatever food the hunters could catch was small; a hare and if they were lucky a doe but it was harder to cook with their small fires._

_At night, when Tobias slept in her arms, swaddled in furs and Sybelle was curled against her side, Maeve would look to the sky, dark and cloudy, and wonder about Jon. Weather he was awake like she was, fighting some southern solider, asleep or...wounded...or not there at all. _

_Sometimes the clouds moved in just the right sequence, allowing her to see the stars. Back in her sept, there had been doors in the stone arches of the roof in the dorms. With just the tug of a rope, they opened and revealed the sky. Watching them now, brought her back to the simpler time when she watched the god's candles as she fell asleep. After her worries had taken its toll on her body, Maeve would settle into an uneasy sleep, still sitting up against a tree. _

_Every night she silently prayed to the Warrior for their victory and Jon's safe return. Any other time, it would have disturbed her that she did not pray like she should have: inside the tent the septon and septa's used for worship, scented oils sweetening the smell of her body, incense burning lightly, murmuring a hymn silently. Not now...not as dread started to seep in._

_Time seemed to flash by yet drag on tediously at the same time. Days merged together, and under the cover of the trees, it was shaded even in the day. Then, one day, a rider wearing northern colours galloped to their camp. When the fast hoof beats broke on the snow, Maeve looked up suddenly, hope growing and then nearly dying abruptly in her chest upon seeing that the horses' rider was not Jon. _

_It was Theon Greyjoy, seeking them out after a "great victory for the north." he said it with his customary crooked grin and this exasperated Maeve. _

_It was then that Maeve felt the first sting of desperation. Damn it, _all_ she just wanted to know was if Jon were safe! Anger coursed through her, so strong she gripped the children's hands tighter than she should have. This fraught emotion brought about shame. It's not right to feel this way; if the gods wanted him, they would take him. A septa should know this, a septa should never question this... a septa should never feel like this over a man. _

_They once again marched through the trees and down the hill where they had traveled, this time with a noble leading them. _

_Tobias slept blissfully in the sling around Maeve's body. The elder boy and girl walked ahead with their mother, holding the rucksacks that carried their belongings. Sybelle and Roderick held onto each of Maeve's hands, their short legs sluggish in the snow that came up to their thighs. Thankfully, a passing wagon filled with the old and very young, offered the young and tired looking septa a break from pulling the children through the snow. Sybelle and Roderick fell asleep against one another within moments of settling in the wagon. _

_The rest of the march through the snow was uneventful, and each step drained more and more of Maeve's energy. Greyjoy had come to them when the sun was at its highest point in the sky. When they heard the telltale sounds of an army camp, it was when the sun was just beginning to skim over the horizon._

_Although the journey was short, it was still difficult with the trees and snow and rocks in their path. By the time they really saw their camp, they were all too weary to cheer, although by the number of men in cots, bleeding and moaning, they wouldn't cheer if they could. _

_As their large group crept slowly into the clearing where the camp was set, Maeve's fatigue was pushed to the depths of her conscious. Without realizing, her eyes began searching the crowds for black curly hair and a white dire wolf. _

_She searched in silence with as much subtlety as she could manage. Hope once again laid its seed in her heart. There was so much possibility in that large maze of soldiers and the wounded...so much promise that Jon was among them. If Jon was dead, their King's brother, they would be flocking to his body, building a platform where his body would rest and where the pyre would flame up and lick the belly of the night. Her heart squeezed. _

_She was tempted to run and look for him, but she could not bring her feet to move, no matter how desperately she wanted them to. Gerold dropped the rolled up tent on the frozen ground and three of them began to slowly bring it up while Maeve minded Roderick, Sybelle and held Tobias. _

_Despite her desire to go out and watch for Jon, sleep was just too tantalizing a mistress. There was no need to worry, she thought dreamily, Jon was _always_ alright. There would be time to look about once she was rested, she'd do a better job of it with sleep. So Maeve curled up away from the already slumbering family, and slept until rambunctious laughter awoke her later in the night. _

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><p>Suddenly, Jon hissed through his teeth. Startled, Maeve pulled away to look at his face. His eyes were clenched shut and his jaw was taut. He was in pain.<p>

"What is it?" she breathed. Not waiting for an answer, she looked down. Sometime during their fumbling his fur lined cloak, his leather jerkin and his tunic had met the snowy earth, revealing his muscled chest and stomach. There, on his side, under his ribs, was a bandage wrapped around his body.

She exhaled sharply though her mouth as her hand reached out to touch it. He hissed once again as her gentle fingers met the bandage.

"It's bled through." she stated, not able to take her eyes off the crimson bind.

"It's a scratch." he muttered, as if it were nothing. He pushed her auburn hair from her forehead.

"Yet it causes you pain." for a split second she wondered if this is how the wife of a soldier felt. Her eyes drifted over his body once more before she looked up at him.

"Its fine." he assured her once again. While gaining some relief from his word, Maeve was still not entirely convinced. Carefully, she pulled her legs free from his waist, Jon supporting her still as she regained balance. Her eyes never broke from his even when her feet finally settled.

Slowly, she leaned in. His lips met hers gently, the urgency from their first kisses channelled into tenderness. It was in their minds that they should stop, the pain of his injury should have killed any desire they had, but they were already too far-gone to heed any thoughts of stopping now. It had been too long.

It was odd, such relief entwining with the dull, almost faint emotion of regret. Was it so wrong that the regret was barely there now? Was it not there only because she was so relieved that Jon was alive and well or was it because being with Jon so many times had become natural?

Their kisses were slower now, but no less passionate. When she began to trail her lips down his neck, he gripped her leg and brought it over his hip on his uninjured side, pushing up her dress until he held the bare skin of her thigh.

He let her unlace his breeches, let her hands wander over the smooth, pale skin of his abdomen. He watched her face as she brushed her fingertips across the linens once again. Her arched brows creased and her eyes looked downcast. Not wanting her to dwell on the wound, he found the laces of his dress with his hand, and gently tugged the open.

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><p><em>When the music awoke the children a few moments later, all five of them sprung up and ran out of the tent, their eyes glittering with glee at the promise of a party. Well, little Tobias tried to crawl after them but quickly gave up when the cold earth chilled his little body. <em>

_The merriment proved contagious as Allyria danced and laughed with the other women as she held her youngest son to her breast and the elder children ran and played with the others. Even Lady Stark had joined them in their celebration and allowed happy smiles and graceful laughs to escape her usually taut and stern mouth. _

_Maeve sat aside, looking on at the happiness, an untouched cup of milk in her hand. _

_When a loud, booming voice called their attention behind them, Robb Stark and his grey dire wolf walked toward them. Cheers erupted all around the camp, and soon, a steady chant had come up: "All hail the King of the North!" _

_But as everyone cheered for Robb and his victory, Maeve's grey eyes were on the man directly behind him, a bastard boy with nothing to inherit. The one who was starting to replace all the love and devotion she had ever had in her heart for the Seven and her sept. Jon Snow. She didn't even notice the slight limp he had. _

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><p>Maeve let out quiet moans as he held her there against the tree. There was no rational thought present for her now, every responsibility and every facet of her life was gone and the only thing left was Jon. For once in a very long time, nothing seemed to matter.<p>

Once again guilt would make her weep silently as Allyria and her children slept. Later, Jon would take his frustrations out with his sword at his weakness. But future torments were pushed away and replaced with longing.

Maeve cried out suddenly and Jon's shoulder's trembled beneath her hands as they found completion. As the tremors ceased, they slowly, almost hesitantly, untangled themselves from one another and began to straighten their clothing, cold beginning to prickle bare skin.

As her hands began to retie her dress, she stared down at the melting snow at their feet, unseeing.

Months ago, over a year ago she realized, she had known exactly who she was deep inside. A Septa; not a lord's daughter, not a peasant, not an orphan, a wife or a mother. Now that life seemed a thousand years gone.

Her feelings confused her just as much. Different strong emotions flitted through her when she thought of certain things; it made it harder to distinguish what she exactly felt. All she truly knew was that it was very difficult to try to stop caring about Jon. her life was based on rules and vows and the gods, how can a man make her wish that were different?

Her hands fell from her laces, only half done, and leant on the tree behind her, watching as Jon slipped on his leather jerkin and tightened the laces on his breeches. His brows were pulled together and his face was hard. Maeve did not bother to tie her hair again; the cold was welcome on her too warm skin.

As she watched the boiled leathers and cotton tunic cover the reddening linen over his wounds, she suddenly realized just how fragile his life was. Since coming here, she had seen men come back bleeding and die soon after. Tears threatened as an image of Jon in one of those makeshift cots, bleeding and dying, entered her mind. He could die anytime.

Maeve did not know what she'd do if that happened. Taking a step toward him, she brushed her fingers over his side, over the _'scratch'_.

"You don't have a right, to come back to me like this." Before he could speak she looked up into his eyes. "You've taken my heart. You cannot be so careless with it." She said, not unkindly. The words were like bitter bile on her tongue, knowing that with all its wickedness and vice, her words were true.

Without warning, he pulled her to him, happiness flaring in his heart at her declaration. She did not say it as a goodbye, like she had four months before. Her arms were trapped between them, crushed against his chest but neither really cared.

Maeve could not stop herself from proclaiming herself to Jon. He needed to know that it would break her heart if he was gone from all existence, banished to the realm of the afterlife.

Then, a moment later, their world was shattered.

"Well, well, well. What is this?" a loud voice sneered out. Maeve's heart stopped. Jon's pounded under her hand. It had to be a dream, couldn't it? They'd gone for months without being caught! Why now? Why now, why now, why now, _why __now_...

Jon's body snapped around to where the voice was heard, but his arms kept Maeve locked in a protective embrace. Dread dropped into his stomach at seeing the familiar form of Theon Greyjoy, his eyes alight as a child that had just gotten a new toy.

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><p><em>Hi...so this is a loooong time over-due, but I'm soooo nervous about getting this out :(<em>

_I loved Vows as a one-shot and had originally planned it to only be that...but then I wrote this back in like September and I rewrote it like 12 different times and I've re-read it 1000 billion times...oh, I just had to get this out after so many times of reading it and revising..._

_If this sucks, i'll just delete and make it so Vows can retain it's dignity...hopfully_

**_Oh yes...thank you for EVERY SINGLE REVIEW you guys gave me! You guys made my first story of ff such a good memory! ;D_**


	3. Chapter 2: Caught

**Chapter 2**

She would not look at anyone, Jon noted with fury at Greyjoy. Maeve's head remained averted toward the ground, her cheeks red and her lip trembling. He had never seen her so distressed, not even after they first made love.

_Love is the death of duty_, Maester Aemon had told Jon once, just two nights before he rode off in the night toward the south. He had not realized just how true the old man's words had been, Jon realized with shame. He had loved Robb and his father enough to leave the only place where he had ever wanted to be, and had stayed for as long as he had for Maeve.

It was soon clear that Robb had little need of Jon; he had his lords, well skilled in the arts and tactics of battle. But they were brothers, and in this world where there were daggers in men's smiles, one needed someone to trust completely. Then there was Maeve. She was just so...lovely and calming to be around. The way she blushed, the way she could be so gentle and then so bold and fierce, the way she smiled, the way her hair curled...

At first, Jon felt ashamed for feeling these feelings, for noticing these pretty traits_. I am a man of the Night's Watch, _he remembered thinking as she walked away with the children he usually found hanging about her. The thought jolted him. Was he though? He left his post, so now what was he? Oath breaker, scoundrel..._traitor_. That's how everyone—even he!—had seen men who tore an oath to bits. The thought made his hands clench and his breath come shorter in fury. He was _not_ a traitor!

The tent felt too crowded, and dreadfully hot.

Maeve felt as if every deed she had ever done was laid bare before their feet, felt as though she were naked under their scrutiny, arms and legs bound so there was no hope of hiding. Under the cold eyes of Lady Stark and the revolted sidelong glances from elder Septon Syvos, all Maeve wished for then was death.

When elder Syvos entered the tent, glaring at her with such hot rage in his aged eyes, old memories that had previously been locked away deep inside her heart began to surface.

Her memories flashed back to the night she went down into the dungeons of the sept, the other girls clinging to one another's hands as they all disappeared into the dark, damp corridor.

Septa Havina was silent as she led them down the spiral stairs, the torch she held the only source of light. Maeve remembered biting her nails until they were blunt and short. The dark had never agreed with her.

The next thing Maeve remembered was entering a room, a cell, where a woman was held. Stunned and terrified gasps came from the handful of girls at the sight of the poor woman, naked and bleeding, whip marks marring up and down her once pale and smooth back. She hung from the stone ceiling, her wrists red and bleeding and her toes blistered from standing on them. Her head was slumped forward and all that Maeve could tell was that she was a red head. She didn't know if the woman was alive or not, but by the smell, it said she was dead. All the same, Maeve had the urge to cover her nudity, save the poor woman from the shame of everyone knowing her in such an intimate way.

"This is what happens to septa's that disobey the gods, and whore themselves." Septa Havina snapped with indifference when one of the girls let out a sob. The woman's eyes flashed over the line of young girls in clear warning. Maeve heard a strangled, sad noise come from somewhere, and after a long moment, realized it was her own sob.

The memory of the bloody, broken, defiled woman was suddenly as fresh in her mind as it had been when she was a child. Septa Havina's voice rung in her mind. Was that what she will become now? Dead and rotting and shamed in the deepest cells of the sept where natural light could not be seen, and her disgrace was exposed for the entire world to see?

_Oh gods, forgive me_, she prayed silently.

Suddenly a hand lashed out and struck Maeve across the face, so hard her head snapped backward and her cheek split open, blood spewing forth.

"Ah!" she grunted in shock, her own hand flying up to soothe the burning, stinging skin. Jon did not think, only acted and flew forward and knocked the elderly septon out of the way, sending him to the ground. He moved toward Maeve quickly, taking her face between his hands and inspecting the damage.

Catelyn watched the altercation with a deep, black wrath that had been growing ever since Ned had brought that damned bundle called Jon, back to Winterfell all those years ago.

Robb had still not made a move to help the old man up, so she did, hauling his frail old body up. She could see her son was torn, between a priests' honour and the love he had for his bastard brother. To her, there should be no competition. Robb already began to try his men's loyalty when he did nothing when Jon showed up at camp. Showing favouritism was not the way to rule. Furthermore, Catelyn found this as another profound insult. For seventeen years Jon had been running around, mocking her every time she saw him, reminding her day-after-day of her husband's betrayal. Now he had violated a priestess of her faith. _Nothing_ good came from Jon Snow.

Septon Syvos was the first to speak then, still half leaning on Catelyn for support.

"You—!" he cried pointing a long crooked finger at Maeve, her face still between Jon's large hands. "—are a whore! A disgrace! Slut!" Maeve instinctively curled closer to Jon and he brought his arm about her shoulders and held her closer, not looking at the enraged septon, but this only fuelled the man's assault. He spat awful, dirty words at her, then at Jon, then finally, at the both of them.

Maeve felt so wrong, holding to Jon when she had always hid her affection in fear of this very prosecution. Begrudgingly, she pulled away, shame wracking over her body more powerful than she had ever felt it. Jon did not stop her, the same mortification running through him as well.

"The _greatest_ sin against the gods! You will rot in—"

"Enough," Robb cut off. All their eyes, save for Maeve's who still looked away from everyone, turned to Robb.

Jon felt another tug at looking at his brother.

Robb looked up at Jon, his face unfathomable, hard and emotionless. It hurt Robb to see his brother like this, knowing that the woman would have to be dealt with by her own superiors with no say from Robb. He had never seen Jon like this with any girl, even back in Winterfell; Jon tended to distance himself from the fairer sex, as many of them either saw coin or only a base-born nobody.

"Septon," Robb addressed Syvos. "Take her back to your tent and decide what is to be done with your septa. I will not tolerate abuse on women in my camp, so there is to be a guard set outside."

"You cannot order me about, boy. I serve the _gods_, no king and will cleanse this whore any way I see fit." Syvos spat, still seething.

Robb glared. "I'm not your boy, _septon_. I am a King, and you will do as I say or be condemned a traitor." the septon glared a moment, before moving forward toward Maeve, and suddenly grabbing her upper arm, harshly pulling her away.

Whimpering only once, Maeve did not fight as the old septon pulled her out of the tent, her hair unbound and uncovered for everyone to see for the first time since she was twelve. Jon watched her go without a fight, wishing that the temper she had would flare up and bid her fight back, but she did not.

Robb turned to Jon, watching Jon watched Maeve be pulled away. "What the hell, Jon?" Robb hissed. Robb was mostly angry that Jon had seen fit to bed a septa, a woman he knew _full well_ he could never have a future with. Jon had broken his own heart.

Jon did not answer, his eyes shifting a second before staring intently at the tent flap, his brows narrowed.

"_You. Had. No. Right_!" Catelyn suddenly hissed, her voice quaking with anger. Without further warning, Catelyn Stark unleashed years of loathing upon Jon Snow. "_You_, I should've ridden myself of you when you first came to Winterfell—" Robb cut her off then, horrified at his own mother's words.

"Mother," he snapped. "Stop. _Now_." Catelyn looked to her son, a little ashamed of herself. It was true though, when she first laid eyes on Jon, pink and squirming in Ned's arms, she had thought of it. And so many babies died in the cradle...but she couldn't do it, she feared her husband's hatred because he did love the little bastard so, just as much as he loved Robb.

"I love her," Jon finally admitted with a lining of bitterness beneath his words. Catelyn and Robb turned to him again.

"Well, you can't." Robb said after a long while of silence. He said the words with no pleasure and no sadness...it was just a simple statement.

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><p>Hi! I know, its short :(<p>

Thank you to:

**Anon**:::Hon, you were the first review on a chapter I thought sucked ass...thank you :D

**Lobo de Fuego**::: thank you for your long review! I loooooove long reviews! Don't panic, I won't virtually punch you...yet...just kiddin...or am I? o_O

**MonaD-93**:::thanks for the review! hope u liked this chapter

**libertine84**::: well, here's your chapter! hope u like it!

**Maeve**:::Sorry, I didn't message u in the last chapter, but ya...thank you VERY much for reviewing, and I agree, Jon wouldn't break his vows and GREAT name btw! ;D


	4. Chapter 3: Bring me to Life

**Hello again! THank you all so much! Thank you for every Reveiw every Favourite and Every Altert! ;D**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Her arm throbbed, her face stung, her side ached from kneeling so long. Faces swam around her, all eyes cold and unforgiving, all set on her. The fifteen other servants of the gods Maeve had traveled with stood around her, inside the tent they used for prayer. The sweet smell of incense that had once comforted her, now turned her stomach. The dying embers lay on the cold ground near her hand; it had been knocked over when Septon Syvos all but threw her inside. But she dare not get up. When she was a child, she had learned quickly that getting up when punishment was approaching, offers more pain than gentle smiles.

So Maeve knelt, half curled up on the ground, and awaited the burning words they were sure to throw at her, and the punishment she knew was coming, as inevitable as autumn into winter, as the Stark's always said.

"You know what the gods demand of those who disgrace them? Those who _spit_ in their faces." Septa Zaffira hissed. It was not a threat she uttered, but it was a genuine question that she knew the answer to. Before the trials, all novice priestess' made to see the outcome of breaking their vows. Strangely enough, no one seemed to care or question the fact that in their prime, septons were known to seek solace with the women from pillow houses.

Septa Zaffira was silently asking if Maeve was mad, if she had forgotten the punishment for such disobedience. Maeve released a shuttering breath she hadn't known she was holding, once again thinking back to the woman hanging from the ceiling in that cold, dank hole.

"She is young, _stupid_, run only by her body. Old Ysilla was old and mad when she insisted this little harlot come with us." another spat.

Movement caught Maeve's sight, and pulled her eyes away from the freezing ground and toward Septa Tissa. Only once before had Maeve seen the old woman's eyes so..._soft_. To an outsider, one would think she were openly glaring at the younger girl on the ground, but Maeve had known Septa Tissa since she was a child and had seen her with her usual scowl. And that was not it.

_She knows_, Maeve thought. _She knows, even just a little about this kind of hurt_. The thought did not comfort her. Maeve's heart still hurt. With or without the old woman's empathy, it beat on in a numbing sequence of emotions.

"Back to the sept with her then?" a septa suddenly asked. Maeve lifted her head.

After a moment's pause, Septon Syvos replied, "Yes." he shot Maeve a pitiless look. "Coital relations with a bastard. The gods must redeem her, save her from the Seven Hells." Maeve knew the Seven's ways of saving a tainted septa, and she felt tears in her eyes at the great and terrible sufferings that she now faced at the hands of the people she had trusted with her life.

Her heart stopped. Had..._had_? She _had_ trusted them...didn't she trust them anymore? The Seven had been all she knew, the sept had been her life, her gods had been all the logic she needed. Had this changed? Maeve thought about it a moment as the others talked around her, and found she did not know.

She _loved_ Jon Snow; her heart had long since yielded to him and was at his mercy. She had betrayed her gods for him (Maeve flinched at the thought), but although she felt this way for him, part of her still longed for the familiarity of her brothers and sisters back in her temple. But now her deeds were laid bare and the scandal was imminent and so now she feared the ones who she had once viewed as a type of family.

Suddenly, her body was pulled up, a large hand tightening painfully about both her arms. A whimper of pain escaped her throat and then a cry of shock and fear as a knife was brought before her face.

Maeve began to struggle, her body jerking to avoid pain, but only gained some as the hands tightened even more. A loud yelp escaped her as the cold metal pressed against her chest and then sliced. In her panicked mind, she did not realize the gash was of her own doing. It would not have come if she had not been struggling. In a flash, the blinds of her dress was ripped open, hands quickly pulling and tearing at the fabric until it was nearly to shreds.

Only then was she let go. It all happened so quickly that scarcely had time to react. Her body slumped forward in shock, her hands weakly holding the remains of her bodice to her chest. _Why are they doing this to me_, Maeve wanted to weep. It was only one thing, and it brought her such happiness...why did they hate her for it?

"Only through suffering, can we receive redemption." Septon Syvos said. Hard hands wound once again around her arms in a steely grip, pulling her up to her lax legs.

The ones holding her began to move toward the tent flaps, her feet weakly running across the ground in a frail attempt at stopping them_. Oh gods no!_

"No! Please don't! _Stop_!" She heard herself beg. She clenched her eyes shut, her only protection from the faces of the men outside the tent.

She felt the cold hit her face, before the light. It puffed coldly against her pale skin, instantly creeping down ward and chilling the skin of her neck, shoulders, and the tops of her breasts for the first time. The simple, yet unfamiliar bite of the icy air on that part of her was like a bad dream. She had felt it before, when she was with Jon in the most delicious state of bliss, but now they made those private, good memories into something terrible, something dirty. For the first time in her life, she felt a real surge of hatred toward the sept and all associated with it.

Her anger was pushed to the back of her mind though, as she heard the first hoot from the soldiers as she was pulled through the flaps.

Eyes clenched shut, desperately tuning out whatever words may have been thrown her way by the most pious of men as well as the most rambunctious, Maeve let the arms holding her drag her forward, wherever they wanted.

Maeve did not expect a rescue, did not expect mercy. She only hoped that Jon was not there to see her like this.

She felt herself stop, felt the excited shudders of the horse next to her, but still she did not open her eyes. She was pulled up on the horse, her hands tied to the saddle, and after what felt like a life-time, she felt the horse jerk and start a slow trot.

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><p>Her wrists were bruised, rubbed raw from the rope. She had long since curled up away from the others, her ankle tied to a long, thick string of twine attached to Septon Mord's wrist.<p>

Maeve could hear their breathing, the snores. It was a little startling to see how they can go to sleep with the same stern faces as they had in the day, but Maeve could not truly appreciate this small wonder. Her mind was whirling.

_Oh Allyria, I'm so sorry._ Allyria had been widowed, left with five young children to care for all on her own without getting anytime for herself to sob over the loss of her husband. So, still in a hazy state of grief, Allyria walked through every day, holding herself up with only her children as motivation and Maeve to help ease the weight of every weary day. Without Maeve, what would happen to her and the children she had grown so fond of? _Mother, please don't punish them because of me,_ Maeve prayed.

And Jon... Oh, Jon, she almost moaned out loud. Tears prickled behind eyes, and her ears began to pound.

What of him? He was the king's brother, so surely they could not string him up. She cried for everything she had lost in only one day: Jon, Allyria and her children, her respect among the other god's servants, and also her dignity.

She cried until her head pounded painfully and her face was wet and her throat was sore. It was only then she gave herself over to the comforting arms of sleep, letting it take her away to happier times.

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><p><em>Dream...<em>

_It was one of those times when she allowed herself to bask in the warm bliss of afterwards. Maeve lay contently in Jon's arms, her head resting on his chest, listening to his breath and heartbeat, another reminder that he was safe and alive in her arms. _

_Slowly she felt guilt begin to set in. Soon she would have to get up and face the fact that this perfectly wonderful evening had been a mistake. It was a confusing loop that Maeve hated to go through, but her body always acted for her: meeting Jon in secret when her mind uselessly whispered what she was doing was wrong, while the rest of her relished her time with him. _

_Still, she enjoyed the tips of his fingers running across the back of her shoulders, slowly pushing her long hair back. She wished she could stay there forever, warm and comfortable, in their own little world where nothing could touch them. _

"_Do you ever think of later?" she suddenly blurted. Jon shifted and opened his groggy eyes, first seeing the dark and mysterious canopy of branches above, then looking down, he saw the beautiful girl beside him. Maeve's hair fanned out over her shoulders, the dark red-brown tresses spread across the ground while the dim light made her skin glow. _

"_When this war is done...what will...?" She stopped herself there. Jon stared at her face, watching her take her bottom lip between her teeth, a nervous gesture he had become achingly familiar with. "Do you ever think of it?" she asked finally, looking up into his face for an answer. _

_Maeve had thought of it, she knew by heart what would happen. She'd go back to her sept, manage the library with Septon Philip until some noble family called upon her to govern and raise their children. She'd watched them grow, silently saddened that they were not her own, and soon, as age's inevitable hand grasped her and robbed her of her youth and beauty, all the sweet, private memories of Jon would fade away, like a dying flower, turning to ashes and falling away to the wind. Jon would reside in the North, pardoned by Robb and go back to the Wall, and forget all about his little slip with the setpa from the South. _

_Jon's brows narrowed ever so slightly, frowning at her sudden question. It was not good to think of the future, he knew it would not look so bright anyway. Maeve would not be a part of it. _

"_Maybe it's better if we don't think." Jon said, shifting and pulling her closer._

"_I know you'll forget me," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. Jon frowned at her. How could she think such a thing? _

"_Don't say that." he murmured angrily. "Do you think I'd forget you? After all we've been through? Do you think _that_ little of me?"Jon pulled away, glaring at her. He sat up, and Maeve followed._

_Maeve stared back at him, a little crease between her brows that let him know she felt something. "Why wouldn't you? You'd be a man of duty, if you went back to the Wall and men of duty who visit old memories cannot do their jobs." _

_Jon paused, his glare softening into something that looked wounded. "Would you forget me?"_

"_No!" Maeve replied without hesitation. How in the Seven Hells could she? He had caused such a bloody mess of emotions inside her, and cost her many tears and sleepless nights, as well as many wild bouts of laughter she never knew she had in her, and seemingly endless periods of happiness. He brought the best and the worst of her and she knew—even with her very limited experience— it was impossible to forget someone who did that._

"_Why not?" he asked, challenging her._

_Maeve bit her lip, unsure of whether or not to tell him what she felt. Wouldn't it hurt even more when he knew? She looked up into his eyes once more._

"_Why not?" Jon asked again._

"_Because..." I love you. "You brought me to life." _

_Jon's eyes lit up and his lips twitched up. The sight of him happy, his eyes laughing, made her own smile light up her face. Without warning, Jon pulled her body up on top of his, resting her forehead against his and smiling against her lips. _

* * *

><p>"Wake up girl!" a loud voice suddenly growled. a light kick was delivered to her legs, and Maeve awoke, finding herself on the side of the road, her traveling companions getting ready again. Her heart hurt inside her, finding herself alone and in this hell once more.<p>

Her hands were once more tied to her horse's saddle and they were off again, traveling the dangerous road to the south, so Maeve could be judged by her elders and punished accordingly.

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><p>Robb was loath to let the priests go, knowing that their departure created a huge security risk. If southern captured them, even though they knew nothing, it would mean death for the sept people. Painful death.<p>

Still, Robb was not of their faith, and so had no real authority over what they did. And the septon's and septa's were innocent of all battle knowledge so there was no threat in them leaving, but for the moral torture that would come if they died where Robb could've stopped them.

Robb felt so very tired, so drained from the day's activities he wanted to sleep for a year. Robb grimaced as one of the healers walked out of Jon's tent, bloody linens in a basin of water in his hands.

The devout men of the South who had joined Robb's cause had called for Jon and Maeve's death, but no matter what Jon had done, Robb could not pass a judgement of death on his brother and then carry out the punishment. But in order to appease the southerners, Jon had to be disciplined, even though Robb felt like a traitor for doing it.

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><p>Angst, angst and more bloody angst :

**Well my darlings, thank you time!**

**Moony:::** Hello! Thanks for reviewing! Ya, I was pretty sad to write that chapter :( hope this wasn't too big a downer!

**Anon:::** You're phenominal! Yes, if only if only...but that wouldn't be FUN! (I know, I'm a masochist)

**Lobo de Fuego:::** aw, you're too kind! Hope this chapter tickles your fancy!

**ksks:::**Don't die! :O...lol

Review, review review review review...review.


	5. Chapter 4: Village

OH MY GOD! 2 chapters in 1 night! This is only out because I wrote this a while back, when I was trying to write chapter 1  
>So, if you recall from chapter 3, Maeve mentions Septa Tissa. well, here it is.<p>

**This is set 1 month before chapter 1**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

**_Flashback..._**

Robb Stark's camp was more like a small, mobile village.

Instead of houses and shops, there were tents and wagons filled with merchandise and small qualities of home that brought some comfort. Things like the tent that served as a whore house for the whores, a tent for the people of the Seven to worship from and even a tent that served as a tavern. These small things kept people relatively satisfied and sane in the middle of a war. It offered a small sense of normalcy whenever one went to these places.

It hustled and moved with the urgency of war camp and the business venture of a town. This disturbed Catelyn Stark. They were not the soldiers she wanted, but refugees driven from their burning homes.

Even eighteen-thousand men made up still too little of an army against the Lannister's who had more gold to throw about than the Stark's could ever dream. Surely, that spy that Robb had let live, had told the Lannister's of their numbers and _surely_ they had doubled their army since.

As she looked out, Lady Stark saw two halves of the same camp: a village and a militia. The two could never stay together for long, despite Robb's optimism on the matter. The women, the children, the old and the crippled would only slow them down and hinder them in their numbers on the battlefield since Robb always left a good number of soldiers with the refugees.

Robb has too noble of a heart, she thought with a small frown. He was still too young to realize that there were some people that cannot and should not be helped in war. He was like his father. Taking one last look around, Lady Stark walked briskly toward her son's war tent with her head held high.

As the elder red haired woman walked by, a respectful silence fell on the group of women and children situated around a large fire, blazing near the center of the camp. Activity only resumed when she quietly slipped into the large tent of Robb Stark.

The sounds of sharpening swords and grinding axes, the sounds of horses and the shouts of men once again perverted the air. Along with this crude and gruff noise, there was the faint, soft music of laughing children and giggling and nattering women floating through the air like the remnants of a sweet mist. It was odd that such a mixture be found in a war camp.

A deep, biting chill had settled over the camp sometime in the night and had still not let up even though they continuously moved further south. The sun hid behind pale white clouds and forced them to relying on a fire for warmth all through the day.

The inviting heat of the fire called to all the women seeking warmth as they did their chores, to the septa's who minded their children, to the old who needed it to warm their bones and to the feeble. Needless to say it was quite a lively bunch.

For the time being, it was almost as if this little group of the exiled and their young were not caught in the midst of war. Their smiles and the jovial tone their words took gave away nothing suggesting anything other than glee, but the truth was always present under every happy smile and good natured quip.

On the far left side, sitting on a flimsy old cloth to protect her against the snow on the ground, sat Maeve, sewing silently.

Lyla had gotten into a row with Sybelle and the younger girl ripped her sister's dress from collar to the waist. Although it was considered wasted effort to repair the dress, Maeve was happy for the work and by the end, the stitch would hardly bother Lyla. She had enough time anyway. The two girls in question were now being punished and commanded to remain in the tent until supper later in the evening. The two boys were off with the men, hunting and baby Tobias was currently cuddling up against his mother for warmth on the other side of the pit.

Diligence kept her mind occupied. At night, after a long day of reprimanding children and teaching them and telling them stories and helping cook supper for the entire camp, she slept the entire night without waking.

Sometimes she wondered dryly how she had time enough to break her vows at all. It was strange to have time to herself, not in a particularly good way either. The toil that made her sleep at night, also kept her mind off...other things.

She hissed sharply as the needle pricked her thumb, drawing froth a small bead of blood. She took the small pad of skin into her mouth and soothed the sting with her tongue.

Oh, that was a terrible lie. Jon Snow was never far from her thoughts. In some way or another he was always present, an annoying little ghost that would pass through her and rip the lid off the box she had stuffed her feelings and hopes and desires into. It was even worse when she saw him about the camp.

Damn him, she thought bitterly as she pulled her thumb away from her mouth and hastily continued with her ministrations.

"That's the third time you've stabbed yourself." a critical voice sounded from beside her. The younger woman did not look up; it was obviously septa Tissa who had sat herself down next to her much to Maeve's vexation.

"Yes, I suppose it is." Maeve responded tensely.

"Girl, I taught you myself. A student of mine never pricks themselves, no matter how ungainly or _dim-witted_."

Slightly exasperated by her previous thoughts and the older woman's nosy cutting words, Maeve let her hands drop into her lap. Still not looking at septa Tissa, Maeve replied, "I'm tired. Five children and a mother who falls into a grieving stupor once or twice a week is a lot to handle." looking down once more, Maeve continued her stitching, hoping the old crow would leave it be. Obviously she did not.

Septa Tissa nodded. "The loss of someone so dear is hard to bear. I was fifteen when I lost my Sid."

Maeve snapped her head up, whirling around to stare at her old teacher. When the woman spoke, it had taken on a soft quality that mystified Maeve. It had never dawned on her that her old crone of a teacher may have had a life before she came into this one. When she first came to the sept a traumatized five-year-old, she had believed a septa had to start her lessons from birth. It was only a ten that she learned otherwise.

Even then, Tissa was too old and bitter to ever have had a husband or a lover, at least that's what Maeve and the other girls believed. She was always too short-tempered to be thought of as anything but an old crow, so the question of Tissa's life before being a septa had always been assumed to be a lonely one, if she was ever anything _but_ an old, bitter septa.

"Y-you were married?" she asked cautiously.

"No you foolish girl! But I loved once. He died before he could make an offer to my father." At seeing the old woman's face harden even more at her inquiry, Maeve thought it better not to antagonize her with more questions. Yet Tissa was not done with Maeve.

"Of course, I don't expect _you_ to understand a broken heart's anguish. You will never love as I or that woman has. Let her grieve, girl. I _doubt_ she will want _any_ absolutions from a girl not of twenty with no experience in the type of hurt she feels."

Once again, Maeve stabbed her thumb, but this time did not go to soothe it. She was too angry to register the pain. Instead, she only looked into the fire before her. Part of her wanted to snap at the old bat, to let her know that her own experience in love and loss was much fresher than hers. But of course, she could not. Strangely, the other part of her wanted to break down and weep and wail, lamenting for something she did not know.

Maeve did not want Tissa to think she got to her, so she closed her eyes and pushed away the welling hurt in her heart and the tears prickling at her eyes. Carefully, she continued to mend Lyla's dress until it was done.

* * *

><p>A few days later, Maeve and four of the five children she governed walked together toward the stream that served so many uses to them.<p>

It was still very cold and word had said that the river was beginning to freeze over had prompted Maeve to bring the children for one last wash of both their bodies and their clothes before the river did really freeze.

"But I don't want to wash in a freezing river!" Lyla protested. "It's too cold and we'll die!"

"Lyla, I will be there with a fire blazing not six feet from the river." Maeve reminded the knobby twelve-year-old.

"Maybe we'll see grumkins! Or a shadow cat! _Or a white-walker_! It's cold enough right septa?" Roderick exclaimed with excitement. _Sometimes,_ she mused, _Roderick is too adorable._ The little boy was always lively, always kind and _always_ curious. There was very little to scorn him for and even if Maeve did, he would look so sorry and sweet; it was tricky to stay cross for long.

"Little one, grumkins live beyond the Wall. A shadow cat prefers the Vale and the white-walkers have been gone for a thousand years." Upon seeing the boy deflate a little, Maeve felt a little bad. "But, gods be good, we'll see some form of wildlife to suit your curiosity as well as my nerves."

Smiling, the boy nodded. Before long, they reached the large boulder, the last sign that they were nearing the end of their short journey.

Maeve paused at the edge of the forest, looking out on the snow covered clearing on the bank of the river. Lyla also froze a moment, before she continued on to save herself from any social embarrassment. The others, however, moved on like there were not at least ten men washing along the icy bank.

One of those men was Jon Snow.

His back was to her as he sat along the bank by a small fire, drying his clothes gently over it. At first, she tried to reason it couldn't be him, but when his dire wolf opened his red eyes and wasn't invisible anymore, she knew it was Jon. That blasted creature fallowed and aided no one but Jon.

Sybelle and Roderick squealed in glee as they ran as quickly as they could toward Jon, more likely, Ghost. The Waters children were closer to the wolf than any other family in their "Village" because of Maeve's friendship with Jon. When they had been acquaintances and the little ones became familiar with the great wolf, the fear and unease that usually came with beholding such an intimidating creature soon faded into amazement. Ghost, that fearsome, eerie beast that caused many deaths for men on the battlefield, was surprisingly gentle with the eager children. _Gentle_ being the key word. Ghost didn't play, but he didn't bite either.

"Master Snow! Master Snow! Can we play with Ghost?" Sybelle asked happily. Since the beginning of their fascination with the animal the children had come into the habit of always asking permission from Jon before daring to touch the beast. It was a matter of respect; Jon Snow was quite admired throughout the regiment for his deeds on the field and of course romanticized rumours always arose with warriors.

Maeve kept her head down as she walked toward the river where Lyla was currently setting out the tarp where they would sit. She could not forbid them to play with the wolf. They had done it hundreds of times before and it would attract difficult questions if she called them away out of spite. Plus, the wolf did keep Sybelle and Roderick occupied.

Without looking in his direction, Maeve set Tobias into Lyla's arms and started a small fire made from the twigs and sticks they had found beforehand.

"Yes, go on. Just don't pull his ears like last time." he said sternly. Silently, from the corner of his eye, Jon watched as Maeve remained aloof to him. While he was stung by her coldness toward him these past three months, he was more irritated by the feelings that swirled through him when he thought of Maeve and what had developed inside him during their little affair.

He hated that he wanted her, hated that he wished he had not sworn his vows, hated that she looked the way she did—so beautiful even covered up head-to-toe as she was.

Maeve scrubbed furiously with the brush, as she washed the children's clothes. Roderick and Sybelle's giggles were maddening as they played with Ghost. In anger, she scoured the course fabric in the cold water until her fingers were numb and red, and it was only then she stopped, set the wet fabric and brush on her lap and sighed tiredly.

She was tired of feeling this way, angry, hurt. She wanted it to stop, to be the way she was before, to be a woman of knowledge and honour before Jon Snow and his bloody..._everything_ had muddled it up so. Anger still present, Maeve started scrubbing again; hoping Snow was nearly done with his business by the river and leave, taking that bloody mongrel of his with him.

"G-good day, Master Snow." Lyla suddenly shivered from the blanket. Maeve froze, not even daring to turn around.

"Hello, Lyla." he greeted back. Slowly, Maeve turned, eyeing him up with tense shoulders and cold eyes. Jon did not look at her, not wanting to see the cold look she always gave him. In Jon's hand, he held a large stick, the end burning brightly and flickering in the cold air. "Here," he knelt down to the small flame they had going and arranged it so the fire _actually_ kept them warm.

Lyla quickly scooted forward, Tobias in her arms while the infant chewed on his fingers. They greedily lapped up the warmth the fire gave off. Maeve swallowed hard, a lump suddenly forming in her throat. Once more her eyes flashed up to Jon, finding that he was looking at her. Quickly she looked down, uttering a quiet "Thank you." before turning away and continuing her scrubbing.

Jon sighed, knowing he would get the cold shoulder but got stung anyway. He turned away, calling Ghost to him and leaving the riverside. Maeve looked back at his retreating form, ignoring the urge to cry once again.

_**End Flashback**_


	6. Chapter 6: Without You

**MY computer is an ASS! It's friggin hard drive fried, and I lost EVERYTHING! all my chapters, story ideas, school work... *sob* everying.**  
><strong>that is why this chapter is sooo late :(<strong>  
><strong>So now that my bitching is over, please enjoy this chapter...<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

Jon did not care that his back was burning and throbbing with every beat of his heart, every thump making his blood stain the pale linens dressing his back even more, he didn't even care that the healer was jabbering away to him about things that meant nothing to him. Jon remained silent and stared at the deer hide tent above him.

Ghost was silent, but Jon knew that the large albino dire wolf was smarter than he let on. Ghost knew that something was troubling Jon, and also knew that he was physically vulnerable. Ghost had been held back with iron shackles around his thick neck, powerless as his master was forced against a tree, his shirts long discarded, and was whipped countless times. Each crack of the whip against his master's once pale and smooth back, left a deep welt that spewed dark red blood.

Ghost had fought against the chain, trying to squirm around to bite the one that held him, but when he finally did latch onto an arm, Grey Wind came running and bit his neck, forcing the white wolf to the ground. Now, whenever someone came toward Jon's prone form, Ghost watched them, the threat clear in his red eyes.

Jon absently scratched Ghost's white furred head, trying to wrap his head around what had happened.

Maeve was gone; he knew this for a fact and could not get his mind off it. It was strange to be without her now, he had gone eighteen years without her and now after only a year of knowing her, it was unsettling now to comprehend that she was gone, back to the south, where he may never see or hear from her again. The thought burned him, worse than the whip marks marring up and down his back.

Pain seared his heart, leaving him wounded beyond repair. Maeve...her eyes, her hair, her lovely face, her soft hands, the scar on her leg, the secret birth mark on her hip...he would never see her again. He felt the sting of tears burn his eyes but forced them back.

Besides the aching in his heart, Jon could not understand what he felt. Part of him, some single part that prized honor above everything else he held dear, was pleased that Maeve was gone, never to tempt him again. Another, larger part, grieved for her absence, the void she left behind made him wonder if it would ever be full again. It didn't feel like it though.

Also, Jon's pride was in shambles, and anger was what was putting the pieces back together. Anger toward Robb, Catelyn, Septon Syvos, the Seven... Jon felt a sharp twinge of shame for this ugly anger towards his brother, but still it would not lessen.

He never thought he would feel this fury towards Robb. It was not hate, but it was still a feeling one brother should not feel toward the other. Jon had never felt as angry at Robb before, not even as children when anger was often petty. They were _brothers _for god's sake and Jon loved Robb. At that point, Jon felt every bit the backstabbing bastard that Catelyn Stark claimed he was.

But not only had Robb sent away Maeve, he had let them go south, were people were so fearing of spies and rebels that they strung up outsiders without warning or remorse, to prove their loyalty to the sadistic prick that was their king. And not only that, but there were rumours to be spies all around, ones that used fire and knives to get information from their victims.

It was almost fair to say that Robb had sent her to death.

Jon had told Maeve once that she was a fool for wanting to leave the relative safety of their camp and head back south, back to her sept. _She got her way_, Jon thought without humor. But what will they do to her now that the world knew about their relationship?

Jon breathed in deeply, feeling the maddening prickle of unease in the face of the unknown.

Ghost looked up and bumped Jon's hand with his cold nose, as some show of comfort or understanding.

But Jon did know; he knew that Maeve's future was not a pleasant one. He had known since he saw the pure disgust and abhorrence in Septon Syvos' pale eyes.

Maeve could be quite a fighter, her several slaps and sharp words had proven that relatively quickly, but she respected her faith so much to the point where her discomfort and her pain became void. She would not protest if they decided that Maeve would be beaten, she would take it with blood and bruises, but no other protest.

_What kind of gods do they worship_, Jon wondered with a new found anger. Why did she blindly follow these gods who tortured their worshipers for feelings that came naturally?

But above everything, above all his hurt and anger and disgust, he feared for Maeve and what her life would become now, because Jon knew his future, even just barely, but he wasn't sure if he _or_ Maeve knew hers.

* * *

><p><strong>2 months later<strong>

Maeve stared down at the little portion of strew, surprised that she did not find it the least bit appetizing. She thought, perhaps, it was because the meat was bad or the potatoes were under cooked but really, it was just because her stomach turned at the sight of it.

_I have to eat it_, she thought, once again lifting the wooden spoon to scoop up the food. Closing her eyes, she lifted the spoon to her lips, and gingerly took in the food. Her stomach rolled, but she forced herself to chew and swallow, wondering why such a mundane task required so much thought.

In the last two months of their journey back to their home sept, Maeve had gotten one meal a day, except when food was scarce; those days she went hungry. She had to savor this meal, because tomorrow there might not be one.

The camped in one place for days and days, allowing the elders to rest and the others gather food from the land. They kept off the King's Road, because if they used the easier path back to the south, they would be constantly stopped by Lannister troops.

This was not the first time she had felt so disgusted by food. The week before, when they'd made camp beside an abandoned village, she emptied the contents of her stomach in the bushes at the sight of the goat liver steaks the others had cooked up.

_It's because of the hurt_, she thought, trying not to grimace as the next spoon full of greasy, slimy stew slithered down her throat. Her heart hurt her constantly, a continuous throb that only let up when her tears stained her face at night and when sleep finally took her.

A loud snore broke through the cool air and she nearly sighed aloud with relief that finally Septon Syvos was asleep. She always felt the old man's eyes on her back. The others were still awake, but they did not glare at her all the time with naked loathing like Syvos did. They barely looked at her at all. It hurt that they ignored her, as if they hated her and wanted no part of her near them.

It felt as if Jon had taken something from her when she left, making her feel incomplete. She missed him, his face, his rare smile, his kisses, the way he treated her, the way he made her feel, his smell, his touch…she missed all of him, and that created the void she felt, the part of her that belonged to him.

Setting down the half eaten stew and curling up on her blanket, Maeve curled her arm under her head for support. The others barely looked up at her movement.

_What was he doing now_, she wondered. She felt a little beat of shame for thinking of Jon, but she was already being punished for loving him so what difference would it make if she thought of him anyway? Her gods would most likely be angrier with her now, but she was already set for the Seven Hells.

She hoped he was alright, she hoped he was happy. He always looked so handsome when he smiled…

Her tears chilled her face and soon, uncontrollable silent sobs tore from her throat. She curled up further, pulling her knees close to her.

Maeve sniffled and said another silent prayer for Allyria, Jon and herself, hoping against hope that some god, any god, heard her prayer and took pity on her. She knew it was wrong to pray for herself when her punishment was to be just, but still, she feared the dark, dank hole where the guilty were taken, she feared the whips and the cold, the rats that feasted on the dead, she felt she would rather just die than face all of that.

_Fool_, a memory of Jon whispered. Behind her clenched eyes, she could see him clearly, smiling at her, laughing as she slipped down into the snow once, hopping about trying to pull her boots on. Finally, after the second attempt, she gave up and lay there, staring up at the dark sky, laughing at herself. Her laughter stopped when he lowered himself down by her, dipping his head to peck a kiss to her lips, both of them still grinning at one another.

When it was just them, Maeve and Jon, not Septa Maeve and Black Brother Jon, there were no masks, no serious walls, and it was _good_ until the night came to an end and the outside world called and reality slapped them across the face.

Maeve opened her watery, red eyes. Maeve was many things, but a craven was not one of them.

Knowing more thoughts about the future and past would only cause more tears and heart ache, she thought back to the early years, back to the stories they recited to each other.

When she was little and when night and darkness had befallen the girls' dorms in the sept, she and the other girls would gather on each other's bed, telling one another of the stories they had each come across at some point. Some told love stories of lords and ladies and knights and kings, others told stories about animals and quests. It was the best time of day for Maeve, when entertainment was the only thing that mattered, not prayer, study or back breaking work in the gardens, kitchens or library. The only stories that the septons and septas told were of the Seven and those got very dull, very quickly.

So, as the sounds of the other travelers ceased, Maeve remembered the fairy tales of her childhood, bringing herself a small feeling of comfort, though what she wanted more than anything, was Jon.

Jon's back had healed…mostly. Scars had been left, tender wounds that that stung when they were pressed on. They opened sometimes when he slept on his back, bleeding and creating an uncomfortable layer of brownish-crimson on his skin when it dried.

He still had not returned to the battle field, much to Jon's annoyance, and so spent his time planning with Robb and his men and practicing with his long sword, all the while ignoring the looks men gave him. Men looked at him differently now, some looked with eyes that judged harshly as if they knew anything, others (very few) had pity, some held wonder, and many had smirks and laughed. Catelyn Stark just outright hated him, she always had, but now that she had a "reason" she was quite vocal about it. But by far the worst was Theon Greyjoy.

As if destroying him and Maeve's lives was not enough, now Theon had become quite fond of mocking Jon whenever he was able, trying to entice a reaction. Jon had thus far been able to push back the need to break Greyjoy's nose but his patience was wearing thin. Maeve was the past, and Jon wanted to forget.

He knew he had sworn he would not forget her, but the hurt and embarrassment and anger that came with remembering her was becoming too much. It would simply be better to forget her and try to get on, but the task was easier said than done.

It seemed the world would not let him forget. In every taunting smirk, every mocking jab Theon Greyjoy announced to the world, Maeve would arise again and all the awful emotions that had come with that day came with it. Tyrion Lannister had once said to wear his greatest shame, (being a bastard), like armor, so it was never used against him. Using his love for Maeve like a shield just did not work.

Jon stalked toward his brother's tent, Ghost running behind him, silent as ever. Robb and Jon had not been on the best of terms since that day. Robb felt awkward and guilty around his bastard brother, not sure what the hell to say to him now that all was done. Jon was still angry at Robb, but refused to unleash his wrath on him. All their conversations were terribly pleasant, not free flowing and joking as it had always been.

There were grunts of greeting from the men around the large table as Jon walked into Robb's tent. Without saying a word, Jon took his place to Robb's left, listening and thinking as Robb made his attack plans.

It was not terribly interesting, but before long they had finally agreed on a plan of action to take the next holdfast. A small weight was lifted from their shoulders at the decision. Jon stepped back, stretching slightly as his muscles ached from looking down at a map for over an hour. But this little bit of calm was broken by Theon Greyjoy's mouth.

"Yes, who knows Jon, maybe they'll have some pretty septa for you to get you cock wet." Theon smirked. Jon went stiff, his eyes flashing dangerously, though he was turned away and none of them could see it. Robb wanted to snap at Theon, and was about to, when Jon swung his body around, and slammed his fist into Theon Greyjoy's stomach.

Theon made a whooshing sound, a strangled grunt and then a wheezing sound. His body curled inward on instinct, inadvertently leaning on Jon's arm for support, while Jon's face remained emotionless. The other men stared at Jon in shock, none of them moving, only watching as Theon gasped for breath, half hunched on the ground.

Jon roughly pulled his fist back, making Theon completely crumble to the ground, and abruptly turned and stalked out of the tent, Ghost running over Theon's body and trialing after him.

None of the stunned Lords made any move to help the young man up, and no one moved from their spot for a long moment.

Suddenly Greatjon Umber said, "I was wonderin when he'd finally do that." There was a low hum of agreement.

* * *

><p>I don't mean to demonize Theon, but ya, can't help it :S<br>Urrgh! I think he wouldn't verbally abuse Jon at every turn about something like this… at least not to his face. But if it was gonna b any one, it was gonnna b Theon.

Sooo...

**My Name is Anon**:::Ah, the land of Smiles and Rainbows. Well, if it's enjoyable... :D

libertine84:::Aw, thank you so much for your review! :D Ah, it's a nice feeling when you know you can scare your readers lol

**Lobo de Fuego**:::: Aw, I love him too (Back off he's mine! *claws*) and thank you sooo much for your review... made me smile! :D

Thank you guys soo much for your reviews, seriously it keeps me going :D


	7. Chapter 7: Wish I Was the Moon Tonight

**Chapter 7**

**1 month later**

The days were long, the cold winds chilling her body despite the cloak she'd been given. Her hair grew dry and brittle from the exposure, dust dirtied her face and still ripped dress from her nights sleeping on the dry but dusty ground. At night, she slept on her back, because her breasts were tender to the touch, and so when she awoke her back was stiff and sore.

The saddle had caused her a lot of pain, but slowly, she grew used to it. It still hurt to sit atop it for hours and hours without stretching, but she came to accept and ignore the pain it garnered.

Their pace was slow, the mule drawn-cart at the head of their van creeping along at a snail's pace. There were six of them on horseback, including Maeve, and there were seven elders inside the cart, always protected by the canvas cover in the back. Maeve felt a little envious for their comfort. Even though they went further and further south, the cold of the North did not seen to leave them.

Maeve half wanted to scream. The cold, her sore body, the endless road in which they traveled, it was all getting to her, mile by maddening mile. Each day brought them closer to the town where her sept was rooted, in the village of Crim. And each day she grew closer to the dark dungeons she had feared as a child.

The other half of her was just tired, too tired to cry, to fight or do much else than wake, ride, eat and sleep. What was the point anyway?

Thinking of Jon and their time together always gave her comfort and in her new world of distress she could not feel guilt for this.

Looking down, Maeve dully poked at the brown bandage on her arm. It was suppose to be white, but the blood had soaked it and dried to an ugly brown.

She had fallen when she tried to lift herself up onto her horse, falling back onto a bed of dead weeds and moss. The impact was not nearly as painful as it might have been if she had fallen on rocks, but it did knock the breath from her lungs and bring tears to her eyes. But the soreness of her back was not nearly as bad as the gash on her forearm. When her left arm flailed out to catch herself, she caught a sharp rock that sliced open her arm, a short gash that released a lot of blood.

She stared at the crude bandage that dressed her arm. The others only threw her a pouch of healing herbs and a roll of cloth to wrap the gash herself, and with only one hand, the work was sloppy at best. It kept the herbs against the wound and stopped the blood, but it was loose and would have to be changed soon.

Suddenly she frowned. Blood…when was the last time she'd seen it? Every new moon women bled, but she had not…she missed it…

Her stomach rolled and she could not stop herself from heaving up the contents of her stomach over the side of the horse. The animal did not seem to care, even as Maeve coughed and spluttered. She knew eyes were on her in disgust as she humiliated herself once more, but she could not be bothered as her mind worked in a panicked frenzy.

Her moon's blood, she had simply not had it, not for…Maeve could not recall the last time! Was she sick? A monthly occurrence did not just simply stop, not until you were old and barren like Septa Tissa. Slowly, Maeve realized the other possibility: a child.

Wiping her mouth and covering it, she straightened on the saddle, eyes wide with shock. No, no it couldn't be…it was impossible! She was not made for it! Please gods _no_!

Of course in the sept they taught them where children come from, and why, but Maeve had never thought she'd ever need to worry. A long time ago, Maeve had come to terms with the fact that she would never be the smiling new mother, just the helpful midwife. She had accepted that no one would call her "mama" or hold to her when they were scared, that her womb would not swell with a child and that every little babe she ever held would never really be hers. Maeve had been alright with giving that up; she had never thought she'd be faced with the possibility. But now here it was. She could be with Jon's child, and the idea gave her a thundering fear.

All at once, her reality came crashing down over her, and uncontrollable sobs tore from throat, worse than any previous night when she cried to sleep. Gone were the nights of content with Jon, the nights that were like walking dreams. This was very real, the possibility frightening and new.

Before, all Maeve had to fear for was herself and what awaited her at the end of this road, but now a child was thrown at her.

If they found out soon, Moon Tea would be made, and shoved into her hands, clearing her womb of the growing babe. Once, not long before her eleventh name day, an unwed girl came to the sept, pregnant and dirty and sad looking. She was older than Maeve had been, around twenty, and asked them for that tea and nothing more, her voice low and sad. The septa's took her in and before they even clothed her or bathed her, they gave her Moon Tea, making Maeve go down to the gardens and fetch the herbs herself. Maeve had seen her afterward, curled up on a bed, sweating, holding her stomach in pain, but in the morning, she was alright, thanking the septa's for their help and leaving again.

Maeve tried to imagine herself in the girl's place, but did not think that she would be able to drink that foul smelling tea…she just couldn't, for reasons more relating to her heart, than to her nose.

If they found out late, when her belly was huge and the end near, they would rip the baby out of her arms the day it was born. Where they would take it, she would never know, and Maeve knew that that would be the worst torture of all, not knowing what they had done with her baby, not knowing if he was safe and happy.

_Please, don't let me be_, she thought. It would be so much better if she were not. A child should not suffer for the sins of their mother and father, and so should her baby not bear the weight of her sins.

"Shut up!" someone shouted, but she could barely hear them above her inconsolable wails.

"Stupid girl's finally lost her wits." Another voice sneered.

Maeve would have no choice in whatever they did; the septa and septon's would decide the child's fate, not her. It was either save her child by destroying it, or save it by hiding it, only to give it a life-time of hardship. She knew it was selfish, but she did not want to destroy it. She wanted to keep it, to raise it, to love it and teach it all that she knew. It was hers, hers and Jon's, even though she doubted he would have ever wanted it.

Her heart gave a painful throb but forced herself to push it back. Now was not the time to dwell over what Jon would have thought. He would never be here with her again anyway, he would never know.

And Maeve was not even certain! Being late was not unusual, but three moon turns without her blood... that was unusual.

Uttering one last loud wail, her sobs slowly began to quiet, turning into sniffles and whimpers. What was she going to do?

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><p><strong>Six days later<strong>

A beautiful full moon hung above, lighting the night world as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Old Ysilla used to tells stories of the moon and sun. The sun was The Father, moon was The Mother. The Father watched over the working days, while The Mother kept guard over the night, the children and mothers of the world safe under her eye. It was said that the full moon was the greatest omen of good and peace.

Maeve found herself doubting the Mother. The Mother was merciful, the kindest of the Seven in Maeve's opinion, but what was merciful about this? Sending her and now a child to ruin?

Six days, but still no change, still no blood. She wanted to deny it, but she knew. Inside her, a child grew…Jon's child. Her child.

The thought was strange to her, but oddly welcomed. She was afraid, so, so afraid but happy and that was worse. She cared for this child, deeply, but this only meant it would hurt her so much more when they took him from her. She put her hand on her belly, trying to make sense of what was there.

They stopped again, this time just shy of a stone bridge. There had been little to eat to tonight, the last of the meat was eaten up and so the feasted on vegetables and hard bread. Maeve still did not want to eat it, but did anyway, the food taking like ash in her mouth. Now she stared up at The Mother's watchful eye, asking her why she had given her a baby when she was never supposed to have one. It was just not fair, to her, or the child.

The others sat by the warm fire, talking in hushed voices, while Maeve sat outside their little group, her knees pulled up to her chest. She looked away, down the overgrown road to the bridge. There was something beautifully tragic about that bridge. One could tell it was once beautiful, but now it was sad and old, worn away by time, stones missing and moss growing all over it.

Maeve sighed. _It shouldn't look like that_, she thought.

Suddenly, a screech broke through the cold night air. "Syvos! S-Syvos! Syvos wake up!" Snapping her head up towards the commotion, Maeve saw Septon Syvos being lowered to the ground and the others swarming around him. Shocked and little scared, she stood, getting a better view.

There was the old Septon that seemed to have so much hatred for her, laying on the ground, his face pale and his body unmoving. Stunned, Maeve was frozen, she could only stare as the others clamored around her, trying to revive the elder desperately.

Time seemed to move slowly as she watched the scene unfold before her eyes. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her breathing whooshing in and out of her mouth, but there was no other sound. She looked away for a split second, over to the bridge, and then back to the others.

Before she knew what she was doing, her feet were moving. Time sped up as she started running like a madwoman toward the bridge, over it and stumbling into the darkness, leaving her old life behind her.

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><p>Hi guys! ;D<p>

**Anon::::**I know eh? I'll probaly submit more physical abuse on him later (Muhwahahaha)

**Lobo de Fuego::::** Thank you, it was a very tragic loss :( hmmm, well, you can have him three days, I'll have him three days and we'll alternate Sundays XD oh yeah, there is SOOO much eye candy in that show, oh my goodness!

**libertine84:::: ** :), aw don't worry, they'll meet again, I swears! ;D

It's surprisingly true when authors say feedback keeps them writing! So, if you want more, (in any of my stories) review!

_later lovelies!_


	8. Chapter 8: Hardest of Hearts

**Hi guys! Oh my GAWD! 6 reviews for the last chapter! U guys rock!**  
><strong>Also, did anyone notice that there's no chapter 5? I didn't lol<strong>  
><strong>Also, I have a poll goin on my profile and it will b going on until Maeve's about to give birth. So please vote, it's kinda of import: What will Maeve have?<strong>

**disclaimer: I own didly.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Her feet kept tripping over unseen debris, but whatever drove her to run, refused to let her fall or stop even for a second. She let out a startled gasp as she tripped, landing on her hands and scraping her palms. The pain did not register as she stumbled forward, recovering and resuming her blind sprint. Her lungs burned, her legs felt horribly tired and her heart felt as if it was going to burst out of her chest but she continued to run.

It was so dark; the trees covered the moon's light and made her blind. The Mother would not help her here, not now, but Maeve was driven by something she could not understand, something she could not name. Whatever it was, it did not care that her gods were not watching her, it just mattered that her feet kept moving, farther and farther away from _them_, the ones who wanted to hurt her, who _had_ hurt her.

_Run, faster, farther_, was all it said to her with each thump of her heart. She obeyed.

Her panting was loud. Labored breathing and an occasional startled cry from her throat was the only sound the night heard.

Despite the instinct to keep running—the need to get away—her legs began to steadily slow. Crooked, sharp fingers clawed at her face, pulling at her dress as she rushed past the trees. The Mother could not see, but she stilled tried to stop her defiant follower. Maeve kept on, bringing her arms close to her as she walked through the dark, her heart pounding in her chest, her blood rushing in her ears and her chest heaving up and down.

The branches scratched along her exposed skin annoyingly, pulling at her hair and weaving twigs and leaves into her wild, messy locks. The ground beneath her worn boots was wet and soggy, the muddy water seeping into the old deer skin boots and wetting her toes. Maeve shivered, suddenly realizing how cold it was without a fire burning nearby.

As her heart slowed, the reality of what she had done came rushing at her, leaving her stunned and at loss of what to do.

She had..._runaway_...the thought was as strange and unbelievable to her as the knowledge that she was pregnant. It sounded so impossible but yet, here she was, in the dark and alone, but free.

_Free_... The word sounded insulting, as if being a septa was a prison. The gods gave her a peace and serenity that most people never experienced, but the world outside of her sept had shown her its pleasures and after that, peace and calm were never enough anymore. Although it shamed her to realize of it, life as a septa _had _become prison, rules and oaths and vows were the shackles that kept her tied. Now what was she? Just an oathbreaker, an unwed woman with a baby coming...

Too many things had happened too quickly, the world had suddenly jumped a hundred paces ahead, and left Maeve struggling to catch up.

Her long sprint began to catch up with her, and her feet began to drag heavily along the hard ground, exhaustion clouding her mind. The muscles in her legs felt tired and heavy, each step was difficult and all she wanted to do was stop and sleep, but she couldn't. Every moment she delayed, every second wasted on rest, meant that the ones behind her were one step closer to her.

_Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving_...

Suddenly, her lead filled feet caught a rather large rock and sent her tumbling to the ground. Her already battered palms caught her body, but only for a brief moment, when her arms gave into fatigue. Her body collapsed to the cold, wet earth and, no longer thinking, curled up on her side, bringing her legs close to her chest. Before long had passed, Maeve fell into a deep sleep, wonderful memories of Jon greeting her as the world slipped away.

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><p>Jon could not sleep. No matter how many times he turned or how many hours he laid awake, sleep refused to come. Ghost lay on the ground beside his bed, his large head in his paws, his red eyes looking about. Jon wondered if the dire wolf was just as troubled as he. The day before had not been a good one, it had been a terrible one.<p>

After he delivered a much deserved punch to Theon's stomach, Jon stalked out of the tent and toward his own, seething with rage and wanting nothing more than to turn back and knock a few teeth out of Greyjoy's head as well. But Jon resisted (at least for now), because he knew it would only create more tension with the men around him, particularly Robb.

The refugees parted as he stalked past, Ghost alongside him. These people did not seem to loath him as much as the noble's did, but he supposed they were simply not vocal about it, since Jon was a noble, a bastard's noble, but still better than them. But at this moment, Jon felt lower than any of them, he felt guilt and anger wrap tighter around his heart and the old familiar hurt that had formed in Maeve's absence nearly take the air from his lungs.

He had ruined Maeve and himself, had destroyed what their lives had been before and had thrown their fates to the wind. He had fallen in love with her and that was their downfall. Jon knew it had been a mutual thing; she loved him as much as he did her, but he couldn't help but feel solely responsible. If he had not loved her back, her honor would still be intact. It was probably because Maeve had been the one taken away to some unknown fate, while he stayed there, long narrow scars on his back a reminder of what his love had cost him.

Jon found himself regretting his choice of leaving the Wall and coming to join Robb. If he had not left his post, had not broken his vows, Maeve would be where she was supposed to be, safe in her sept, reading up on something…She had loved reading, he thought. More rather, loved the knowledge reading gave her. His heart squeezed.

When he looked back at his relationship with the auburn haired girl, he tried to find a point before they became lovers that he could have stopped falling for her, but he couldn't. Gods, he had fought with himself at nearly every turn over Maeve in the beginning. He knew finding her pretty was wrong, he knew that talking to her when he wanted her was wrong, but he couldn't help it! He had just…_found_ her. His feet always walked to her, his eyes always found hers, even when he didn't mean to.

What would his father think of him? At the thought of Eddard Stark, his honorable and just father, Jon wanted to run back and beat the hell out of Theon Greyjoy, just to relieve the tension. He felt a little ashamed at the thought, knowing that his father would have been deeply disappointed in him if he turned back. And _Maeve_…she would've looked at him like he was a madman; she would have been frightened of him.

_It does not matter_, he thought angrily, _both of them are gone!_

Suddenly, a voice stopped his thoughts, a woman was screeching at the top of her lungs, anger filling her every word.

"I told you to watch him! And what do you do? You go off with that _boy_! Now look what you've done! You're brother's arm is broken because of you!"

"I'm sorry! I-I didn't think that would happen!" Jon looked to where the argument was coming from, seeing an aged woman with graying red hair screaming at her daughter, a thin, knobby looking girl of fourteen. It took Jon a few seconds to realize it was Allyria Waters and her daughter Lyla, Maeve's former charges.

The elder woman was tired looking, while the girl was wide-eyed and teary. Allyria screamed something else at her daughter, and Jon saw Lyla's lips move then suddenly, Allyria's hand flashed out and struck her daughter. It was not a particularly harsh blow, but it was enough to break the young girl's heart, staring at her mother with wide, shocked eyes. Lyla clutched her cheek and as Allyria raised her other hand to do the same damage to the other cheek, Jon rushed forward and caught to woman's wrist.

"Stop." He ordered, squeezing her wrist warningly. Allyria looked up at him, her expression reminding him of the way Lady Stark looked at him when he had come to visit Bran after his fall, heartbroken, but full of hatred.

"Unhand me, _bastard boy_." She spat. "She's my daughter and I'll punish her the way I see fit." Allyria tried to wretch her arm away, but Jon held tight.

"I said stop! You don't _ever_ strike a child in this camp." Jon growled.

"You see what she did to my boy?" she gestured angrily to her side. For the first time, Jon noticed the little boy lying on the ground, an old man wrapping up his little arm that looked three times its normal size. Jon grimaced at the poor child.

"She didn't break it herself on purpose. She's your child too."

Allyria's eyes glistened, but her anger didn't break. "She left him alone! You know what could have happened when he was on his own? He could've been killed!" Jon looked to Lyla, who was staring at her mother with tears streaming down her pink face, still clutching her cheek in shock.

"Well he didn't. He's fine and alive, and beating your daughter won't help anyone." What little remained of Jon's patience was waning thin now. Thankfully, Allyria's walls completely broke and her face crumbled into one of agony, a sob catching in her throat.

Jon was surprised as the woman began to sob. Crying women were one of the things that made him extremely uncomfortable, and for an endless moment, he stood there as Allyria sobbed. Suddenly, she collapsed against Jon's chest, clutching at him as a child clutches to their parent. Jon was shocked, but listened when she spoke.

"I-I-I can't do this," she sniffled, "on my own. My h-husband," _sniff_ "he's-he's gone and now so is Maeve and I-" she broke off as another sob wracked her plump body. Awkwardly, Jon raised his right hand and set it on the woman's shoulder, not quite knowing what else to do.

Allyria sobbed for a long while, until the healer was done with her son, and Lyla had gone to sit by his side, still sniffling every once in a while. The fox fur lining his cloak was soaked by the time another woman came along and gently pried Allyria away from Jon.

It suddenly occurred to him that Maeve was not just missed by him.

He watched as Allyria's still sobbing form was pulled inside a tent nearby and before he left to continue his journey back to his own tent, he made sure Allyria's children were taken care of.

Now, as Jon lay on his side, staring blankly at the burning lamp on the table across the tent, he could feel the hole Maeve had left in his chest expand ever so slightly.

It hurt to think of her, but it was near impossible not to, despite his best efforts.

Jon had seen heartbreak before; he had seen it in his brother Robb. Robb had been crazy for this girl a few years back when they were fifteen. She had been a lord's daughter and had seemed to care for Robb as well, until she left Winterfell with the promise of a marriage proposal to a man in the South, and never once looked back. Robb was deeply hurt, angry and sad for a good long time, but slowly, it began to fade and Jon saw his brother return to how he had been before that girl ever entered his life.

Jon wondered if that would happen for him. Would his love for Maeve fade with time?

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><p>The morning light slowly lit up the world around her, sunlight streaming through the cracks in the branches and shining in Maeve's face. Slowly, consciousness came back to her, and she found herself stiff and sore from her slumber on the bare ground.<p>

Gingerly, she sat up, her back cracking and relieving some of the pain. Maeve shifted, stretching when she froze. The events of the previous day rushed back to her and she found herself staring looking around at her new surroundings.

Around her, trees' branches hung down, sad and lonely and abandoned. The forest floor was littered with dead leaves, fallen branches and little shrubs that somehow managed to prosper. Maeve felt that her clothes were damp and got up, to avoid getting completely dirty. Admittedly it was a useless attempt since she looked a mess with her wild hair with twigs and leaves meshed into it, her ripped and soiled dress and the scratches marring her skin.

Getting up proved to be painful and out of instinct, Maeve set a hand on her stomach, and looked down at it in surprise. A baby…she was going to have a _baby_. She wondered if she would ever get used to that thought, but feeling the little smile creep onto her lips, it gave her hope that she would. A little piece of her and Jon was growing inside her, and she could not—would not—let anyone take it away. Gods forgive her, but her child would live and live free and happy and loved.

She had been taught that the Mother loved all children, bastard or not, but she wondered if She would love her child.

Maeve looked up and as she did, she saw something through the trees, not too far away either. She saw the remains of a broken, long abandoned holdfast.

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><p>soooo, DEEEEP thank you's to the following::<p>

**libertine84::::** I know that's what I said! lol

**Anon:::** :D I pride myself on surprise!

**Lovebuggy:::** hi! Well, I hope you liked this chapter!

**Lobo de Fuego::: **XD aw, you're soo sweet! well, you my dears, will have to wait to read what I have planned :D

**Thing 1:::** Thanks! hope u liked this chapter!

**Angel of Amaranthine:::** Thanks! I'll update soon and let ya know!

**_Also, I will take suggestions for baby names!_ I kinda need them...I'm stuck :S**


	9. Chapter 9: Rains of Castamere

**Note: I don't own anything.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

Maeve walked past the sad, broken remains of the castle, the large stones and half crumbled structures that had once been walls, were the only hint of what had once been. A gentle breeze blew across the clearing, making the grass sway and pulling her hair over her shoulders. It was quiet here, and it seemed that not even the animals dared to tread this plot of land, no matter how lovely it was. _A place of death and destruction_, she thought. Despite the rising sun and the lush growth around her, this place was more of graveyard than anything else. A graveyard with a mask of beauty.

A strange, unpleasant sinking feeling began to well inside her as she walked, but her feet could not turn around. It was strange, such a cheerless, dark place, somehow so beautiful and bright.

The grass was soft beneath her fingertips and the air was fresh and clean, and southern holdfasts were known to have groves of fruit trees so perhaps there would be something to eat.

Gingerly standing on one of the strewn, pale stones, Maeve looked up once more and across the clearing and stopped to look at the structure that stood not far from her.

The wall that had not fallen yet, the arched window was still there but was now home of a nest of sparrows. It seemed as though that while most animals avoided this place, the mother sparrow nested here. Perhaps it was for the better. Maeve heard eager chirps from the nest and watched as the mother sparrow returned and perched on the lip of her nest. No predators had come to steal her eggs.

Beside the wall was a tree, damaged and most of its branches gone, but still growing, half hunched over as it was.

Wanting to be closer, Maeve stepped down from the half buried stone and jumped in surprise as she heard a loud _clink_ from beneath her feet. After staring at the source of the noise a moment, Maeve moved forward, knelt down and brushed away the grass and the thin layer of soil covering whatever it was.

Rich brown soil stained her fingers as she brushed the dirt away. Her fingers met something hard and smooth and cold and a moment later, she found what had piqued her curiosity. There, half rusted by years of rain, was an iron breastplate, a red lion with a forked tail and golden teeth and claws still faintly visible, although time had chipped away some of the paint. _Love, Honor, Glory_. The words were engraved below the red-lion, bold and proud still after all these years.

Maeve's grey eyes could not leave the breastplate, as if the House sigil held the meaning of everything within those three words. She frowned. She'd heard those words from somewhere..._somewhere_ so far off it did not seem real.

Realizing her stupidity, she sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. They were just words, and she was already starting to feel the weight of the world on her shoulders as she looked around the clearing once more, finding herself alone.

Alone. She was alone now, she had to take care of herself and soon she would have a little infant to take care of as well. Sad tears prickled in her eyes.

Standing, Maeve turned away from the forgotten relic of the fallen House, ignoring the curiosity that flared within her as she turned away from the crimson-lion and the words that as familiar to her as her own name.

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><p><em><strong>Flashback<strong>__… 13 years ago_

Winters and summers and the years in between had made the castle of Castamere a shadow of what it had once been. The stones that laid half buried in the ground and peeked up from the lush grass had once stood as sturdy walls of a great castle and village, the seat of House Reyne.

The Reyne's had been a prestigious house, the Lord a seasoned warrior and his Lady a perfect gentlewoman, their children—all three—beautiful and healthy. But it had been their gold that was the most impressive. Castamere was once home to a rich goldmine, gold nuggets were daily fished out of the mines and it became a common fact that the Reyne's were the richest House in all of Westeros after the Lannister's.

But the Lannister's had whelped a weakling lord, one who had nearly drove the once esteemed House of Lannister to financial ruin and was soon the subject of much mockery over the entire realm.

Lord Eli Reyne watched from his solar as his daughters played in the gardens with their kittens, Lady Fluffy and Ser Mouser. Their screams of delight as they chased the playful kittens made his heart glad. His son—his heir—was in the practice yard, the Master at Arms teaching the boy how to swing a sword properly.

His children had taken the Reyne look, dark red hair with light eyes and fair skin. His son would grow into a strong man, honorable and brave, a Lord to be proud of. His daughters would grow into tall, graceful ladies, marry some lord somewhere and mistress their own castles one day and bring forth little children of their own. Knowing that one day his children's sweet laughter would disappear into practiced courtesies, Lord Reyne enjoyed the sound of their games for the moment.

Their childish joy was free of the fear this rebellion of his was causing. But Lord Eli was fighting a battle he could not walk away from, one of his heart and mind, as well as a one of law and honor.

Years before his eldest child entered the world, Lord Reyne's closest friend and trusted ally, Lord Olis Tarbeck, was taken captive at Casterly Rock for attempting to murder another lord. The lord had raped Olis' wife, and he wanted to beat the man to death with his own hands. But the Lord who had done the crime was a Lannister, and so, Tytos Lannister, the ruling overlord, had instead put Lord Tarbeck into the dungeons for treason.

Eventually, Lord Olis was released. His Lady wife had taken three Lannister's hostage at their holdfast, and despite Tywin, Lord Tytos' son's protests, Tytos exchanged their hostages, hoping that everything would be forgotten. But it had not. Hatred had grown with Tytos' indifference to the Tarbeck's suffering.

Lord Tarbeck and Lord Reyne had been deeply vexed at their Lord's handling of these nasty affairs. Tarbeck came to hate all Lannister's and Lord Reyne grew to hate them as well. Tytos Lannister was making fools of them all. Tytos was weak, a pleaser, not a leader, even bending to his mistress' wants and desires. He lent out debts to men who did not plan to pay them back and now the Houses of the West had become a laughingstock.

Tytos Lannister was not a Lord, he was barely a man. So, weeks ago, he and Olis Tarbeck had formed together as one army, rising against the Lannister's of Casterly Rock.

"Eli," a voice broke him from his thoughts. He looked toward the door, and saw his lovely wife, Lady Violet Reyne. "I beg you do not do this." Her eyes were pleading, wide and frightened. In the course of only a year, Eli watched as his wife's once lustrous chestnut hair grow dull and streak with white. She feared for their lives. For their children.

"I've told you this a hundred times over, Vi, this must be done." He said tiredly. He pitied his wife; he wished she did not worry, but what if another dispute divided the Houses? If that happened, Eli was sure civil war would break out in the West and he feared that most of all, even above his dear wife's nerves.

"But they are _Lannister's_! Do not cross them! If they were to fight back—"

"They won't! Tytos Lannister is weaker than a newborn baby! The Lannister's don't deserve their seat."

"And you do, is that it? You want Casterly Rock?" she sneered. Eli paused at this. Casterly Rock was a tempting prize for this rebellion, one that he wanted to win.

"Enough, woman. Leave. Bid me come when the Tarbeck's banners are visible." He ordered gruffly. Eli had grown tired with his wife's constant nagging. He just wanted to be alone now with his plans and maps.

Storming from her husband's solar in a state of pure rage and hurt, Violet Reyne quickly made her way down the stone steps of Castamere, and out into the garden where her daughters played. She wanted her children close.

"Aleia! Maeve! Come to me sweeties!" she called to them.

_**End Flashback**_

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><p>Tenderly, still mindful of her sore muscles, Maeve sat down at the base of the tree, happy for the shade from the sun.<p>

Looking down at her folded hands, she still could not believe what she had done. Her feet and thighs ached from her long run, her back was stiff from sleeping on the cold forest floor the night before and her hair was now more of a nest than the curly auburn locks she had always had. She wanted to find a river to wash in, but her body would not bring itself to move.

She found herself somehow proud of her disheveled appearance. The little scratches on her face, chest and arms, the twigs and leaves in her hair, the dried mud on her dress, it was proof of what she had done.

Jon would've been proud, he would've smiled at her and kissed her and made the inside of her chest flutter with pleasure. He would've kissed her forehead, held her close and whispered something sweet in her ear and made her shiver delightfully. Maeve' heart twisted in the most wonderful and painful way.

Jon was not there, he never again would be. Never again would she smell him, touch him, kiss him, hear him laugh or see him smile or just simply hold him to make sure he was really there and alive and safe. He would never know of the child he had fathered and know that she had runaway. _Maybe_, she thought, _that is better_. Better he forget one person than two.

As much as she loved Jon, as much as her heart and soul cried out for him every moment she lived, she didn't want to see him again while she had his child.

During their time together, in the conversations they had about their lives, Jon had told her about his life in Winterfell and how being a bastard had always hung over his head like a dark and ugly cloud. She feared the anger or disgust in his eyes if he should ever look upon their child, his son or daughter with a bastard's name. Maeve knew that if that happened, her heart could not bear it. So, in Maeve's heart, she believed that if the gods were kind, she would see him again, if the gods were cruel, she would see him again.

It doesn't matter, she realized. It did not matter what she feared or wanted because Jon would never come back to her. It would hurt less to just not think of him.

Standing and bushing her hair back from her face, Maeve looked around and began to walk again, hoping to find a place to wash or something good to eat. She got lucky and found a clear rushing stream cutting trough the grass of the clearing.

Stripping off her dress her small clothes without fear of prying eyes, Maeve stepped into the pleasantly cool water, smiling as the dirt on her feet washed away with the current. Her legs slowly became submerged as she walked deeper; the mud at the bottom of the stream was squishy between her toes.

Dunking her body under the clean water, Maeve felt the water cleaning away all the dirt and grime that was layering her body. It felt good, having a proper wash after so long. Lifting her left arm and unwrapping the blood stained bandage, she cleaned the wound and was pleased to find that it was healing well. She threw the soiled linen onto the bank of the stream, a soft wet smack sounding over the rush of the water. Maeve had no intention to ever use that again.

After a long while in the stream, after rinsing out her hair and scrubbing her body down with only her hands, Maeve walked out from the water, shivering but wonderfully clean.

Still naked, she pulled her clothes from the grassy bank, and thrust both shift and dress into the water, scrubbing fiercely at the fabric. When she was done, she carefully wrung them out and donned on her shift, knowing that the thin fabric would dry quicker than the thick fabric of her dress. She laid her dress down to dry and sat down next to it, her knees drawn up close to her.

Guilt slammed against her heart as she thought of the others, the septon and septa's. She thought about septon Syvos, wondering if he was alive or dead, if the others were looking for her or building a pyre for the septon. Maeve did not know, but somehow believed it was the latter. The old man had been cruel and hateful, but he had been faithful to the Seven, something she admired. She hoped it was peaceful, hateful creature as he was, but hoped more than anything that she had gotten far enough away from them.

She had escaped, she had runaway…but to what? To a life of uncertainty, of hardship, of untold sacrifice… What would she do, where would she go?

_Stay here_, a little voice whispered to her. Yes, it is quite lovely; secluded, good steam with clean water, and there must be a fruit grove somewhere around here. It was as if she had been _meant_ to find this place, as if it was _meant_ to be hers.

Maeve entertained the thought of building a life here, and for a few moments it was a nice little fantasy, but she realized it would not work very well. What were the chances that another person was to come here soon? The odds were good for protection but not as a person. The thought of forever being alone terrified Maeve.

I'll just stay here a little while…only a little while and then get on when…when I have enough for travel. She laid back on the grass, looking up at the white clouds above.

_Only for a little while_, she thought.

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><p><em><strong>Flashback<strong>__...13 years ago _

They had set the castle afire, the stone would not burn but the red and orange flames burned the eyes of the people, scorched their lungs and very soon, the old and feeble were dead from the thick black smoke.

Violet Reyne cursed her husband to the deepest pits of the Seven Hells, as she ran the crowded frenzied halls to her children's rooms. The castle had been stormed by the Lannister's soldiers in the dead of night and her husband had gone out to fight as well, assuring her their family would be still be alive when the morning's light came, even if his rebellion died.

_To hell with him and his damned rebellion_! She thought. She did not care where her foolish husband was, he had brought this down upon them so let him burn with this castle. Mad fear ripped through her as she heard, _"They're in! They're in! They've broken through the Main Gate!" _Please gods, spare my children, she begged as tears sprang from her eyes. Screams of terror and agony began to sound throughout the halls, fueling her need to find her son and daughters.

Finally, she reached their rooms. She roughly pushed open the door to find her three children huddled together at the far side of the bed, whimpering and sniffling as they held to one another.

"Come, come, come now!" she hissed. They fearfully stood and ran to her, her daughters clinging to her night dress and robe as her son attached himself to her hand. She could feel their fear, and see it in their beautiful steel eyes, and it broke her heart to see them this way. She needed to get them out.

Violet Reyne ran with them down to the kitchens, where the back doors led out to the gardens and into the forest. There were no Lannister's there, and they could escape, they would escape, they would be safe. She locked the wooden doors behind her, throwing the key into the burning embers in the fire pit.

But when she made it to the kitchens, she could hear the sounds of battle ring out from the halls near to them. Her heart plummeted a thousand feet. Looking back to her three beautiful children once more, Violet knelt down to their level, holding one of her daughter's hands and gripping her son's shoulder, while the third was standing between them.

"Listen to me, sweeties," she whispered, fear making her voice shiver. "Run as far as you can, as fast as you can into the forest. You know the forest, yeah? Good." The woman took in a shivering breath as she looked at her children, learning their faces by heart although they were forever seared into her soul, and felt more tears well in her eyes. "I love you so much," she whispered. _Gods, kill me if it means they can live_, she prayed. _If not, I'll just do it myself_.

"_Mother_," one daughter whimpered tearfully, as if knowing her mother's plans.

"Hush. Stay together, and go to uncle, you know Lord Ryger. Good." Violet whispered. Looking at them a moment longer, and giving them a watery smile, she leaned forward and kissed each of their sweet brows before standing and ushering them out the back door.

"Know that I love you sweeties." She whispered. She pushed her children out the door, having to pry her daughters' arms from her to do so. Her children looked at her with faces that made her heart break into three pieces, one bit for each of them. "Go," she hissed. They did not move. A loud bang made her whip around to see an axe breaking through the locked door. _"Go!"_ she hissed more harshly this time. This time they flinched and began to run, her son holding to both of his sister's hands.

"There she is!" she heard a male shout from behind her. She turned to see a group of Lannister's coming through the now broken door.

Violet held her head high, comforted by the fact that her children had gotten away. Then suddenly, she heard a scream, a little child's scream. She once again turned back to the back door and screamed in anguish as she saw her youngest daughter fall, an arrow piercing her little leg.

She started to run to the girl, but was stopped when a hand roughly grabbed hold of her hair, pulled her back, and brought the cold steel of a dirk under her neck.

In one quick jerk it was done.

**End Flashback**

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><p>I know, I'm a bit of a masochist :(<p>

This chapter was a challenge, I was battling on wheather or not to include the flashbacks, and now I'm wondering if Maeve's past is gonna become aprat of the story :|

Thank you SOOOO MUCH guys for all the reviews and favs and alerts! They really do mean a lot! ;D

**Review, please! ;)**


	10. Chapter 10: Things Unknown

Howdy guys! :D Ya, I know, long time but my friggin computer has been acting up and I lost my will to write :/

Disclaimer: I am not, nor have I ever been, GRRM, and so I don't own didly

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 10<span>**

The night had grown cold and though she worried for what attention the light of a fire could bring her, she did not care and built one anyway, but not without difficulty. Up against the wall, a ways away from the half dead tree she sat, feeling her body warm as she slowly ate a nearly rotted apple.

Maeve had been right, there had been a grove of apple trees as well as berry bushes, but the season was coming to an end and so most of the fruit was on the ground and rotting or was ready to fall. Despite the softness of the flesh and the worm holes in some of them, Maeve gladly ate the apples, her stomach no longer growling at her in hunger.

It was strange, to have the world open up to you and yet close at the same time.

Her life had been the sept. Her family had been the septon and septa's. The only proof she had ever needed was the gods. There was a whisper of doubt inside her heart as she thought of her old home. It had given her so much; it had protected her from the unspeakable horrors that befall homeless children in the outside world. The sept had given her a home, clean water, good food, a bed to sleep in, a roof over her head, an _education_…no one else save for little lords and ladies could ever make such a claim! And all they had asked for her in return was her faithfulness as a septa, and she could not give it to them.

Why had they sent him to her then? What could they have _possibly_ wanted of her and Jon, if not for them to love each other? _The gods worked mysteriously_, they said, _the gods are always right_, they said, _always follow their law_, they said. But she had followed them, had faith in them, they gave her Jon, but punished her for loving him. What was just and good in that?

Bowing her head in disgrace, Maeve closed her eyes. She knew she should go back to the sept, to face her punishment as bravely and honorably as she could, but she could not bring herself to _want_ to. If she did, her child would be caught in the crossfire and it made her ill to think of it. It was so wonderfully amazing how she could care about something _so_ much when she barely knew it was there, when she hadn't seen it or felt it; it was beautiful how she wanted it…_loved_ it so much already.

She was free from giving up her child, the little piece of Jon that was growing right inside her, and was free to have it and raise it. But now because she was alone, life had become much harder.

A child without a father was a pariah among other children, one to be avoided, mocked and even beaten for it. A mother without a husband was a whore to be taunted and shunned, to be given no other job than how they assumed her child came to be. At least, that was what Maeve had always been taught. The world was rightfully cruel to the wicked, taught the sept.

The future was uncertain, but Maeve knew that life would always seem bleak if she chose to see it as such.

Her child would be judged for the lack of father in their life, and she would probably be seen as a whore…but if there were people that could view others so hatefully, there _had_ to be people who could look through the past and see the people beneath. Maeve had seen Jon Snow as something much more than a bastard: she had seen a good man, gentle and sweet to her, capable of great things with a kind but firm heart. She had seen his flaws, his ambition, his anger, his quick and sometimes violent temper, and how he could be a stupid fool. All of these things _did not_ make him an illegitimate son, it made him Jon, the man she knew and loved.

Maeve gave a little smile, poking the fire with a stick.

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><p>"What's his name again?" Jon asked Robb as they walked through the bustling crowd of soldiers, past the writhing bodies of the injured and the healers who tended to them. The battle was won; they had taken Wayfarer's Rest, the first holdfast on the way to Casterly Rock. Next was Golden Tooth, after that, Sarsfield.<p>

"Ronald Ryger, a River Lord." Robb replied shortly. The air was thick with silent contempt and unease between them. Things had not improved between the brothers, many things were left unsaid and so the tension had not ceased. This irked Jon to no end, but he did not speak up, nor did Robb. What were they supposed to say?

"Where the hell has he been?" Jon asked skeptically. When Robb had taken Riverrun, every House under the Tully's had sworn their swords to Robb, save for the Ryger family. Their little holdfast held no noble with the name Ryger, only their knights and squires. Readily, the abandoned knights swore to Robb, but the Ryger house had simply disappeared, Lord, Lady and their only child. There were whispers they had fled to the Lannister's, but so far, there had been no proof. Jon didn't want any or need any. They had fled like cowards, they were oath breakers. _So are you_, his heart whispered.

"He said somewhere helpful. To us or the enemy, I don't know." Robb replied stiffly.

"Did he bring men with him?"

"Three knights, a steward and his son. The knight's don't even have House sigils on their armour." Jon stopped a moment amidst the hustle around him in surprise, but started moving again a moment later. Robb was a little ways ahead of him now, but Jon made no move to catch up.

Robb's war tent, where the battle preparations were made, was half crowded as Jon entered. Robb sat behind his desk watching the men before him with a stern glare.

"Lord Ryger," Robb began, staring directly at the short, stout man wearing green robes that were caked with dirt and mud. He was old, his hands crooked and his hair wispy and white, but it was clear, with the way he stood, that he had been strong in his youth, a sword fighter perhaps. Now it was clear he was too old to carry even a dirk, his hands would not let him. Stitched onto his chest, was the symbol of his house, the weeping willow of the Ryger's. The knights behind him were silent, the two men—one who must've been the steward and the other his son—were quiet as well.

"You swore loyalty to my grandfather, Hoster Tully. Yet when he called his men to war, you were nowhere to be found. Give me a reason why I shouldn't condemn you a traitor."

One of the young men next to Ryger, his son, quickly rested his hand on his sword, but made no other move. The other young man a boy of twenty-three, shifted closer to his lord, staring at Robb in a way that dared him to make good on his threat. Jon didn't like this, and clearly, neither did Robb.

"I am your King, _boy_." Robb glared at the steward. "Back down." The boy, a steward by the name of Garrett, glared back, but slowly stepped away, clenching his fists until they shook and averting his eyes from Robb's.

A long moment passed before Lord Ryger spoke. "Forgive him, your grace. Garrett's been a part of my household since he was a little lad. " His voice was old and soothing, but Robb did not look impressed. "Your grace, when word of war broke out, I thought it the perfect time to rally supporters in the West."

"In the west? The western houses are Lannister men, old man." Said Robb incredulously.

"Yes, yes, my King, but, I've found in my life, that when you have more gold than your worth, you attract as many friends as you do enemies." The old lord replied slowly. Robb waited for the old man to continue, wanting him to get to the point without the useless words beforehand.

Lord Ryger either didn't notice Robb's impatience or didn't care. "You know of the Reyne's, your grace? The family that tried to raise against the Lannister's...my sister, was the husband of Lord Eli Reyne and when she and her husband, as well as one of their children, were murdered during the storm of Castamere, it was a blow to my heart as well as my pride.

"It was no small secret what they were fighting for: the Lannister's were no longer fit to hold to titles they were given and, following the rape of another lord's wife, my brother-in-law saw fit to relieve the Lannister's of their seat." Reyne ended sadly. The steward next to him shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Answer: _why_ did you run when you were called to war?" Jon grumbled impatiently from the tent opening. The men looked over to Eddard Stark's bastard with surprised eyes. No one had expected the silent man in the corner to speak up so loudly.

"He didn't _run_, you s—" Lord Reyne waved a hand and silenced whatever insult that steward of his was going to throw at Jon. Jon shifted his eyes to the boy, intent on making the prick learn his place, only to have the strange feeling of nostalgia come over him at seeing his eyes, his surprisingly familiar grey eyes.

"Garrett, shut up." Ryger scolded. Jon looked away from the steward. _Fool_, he thought, _she's gone a few months and now you see her eyes everywhere. _It disturbed him a little that it was in the eyes of another man.

"Your Grace," he continued. "The Reyne's actions were justified, even if you don't think so. Tytos Lannister ignored the crimes his own kin committed, let him walk free and unpunished simply because they shared the same blood. Many Houses, not just the Reyne's or the Tarbeck's, were angry by the Lannister's actions. And when their Houses were destroyed, every house in the West was wounded."

Robb watched the old Lord, looking for lies and deceit. Finally, he spoke. "What you claim is that the houses sworn to the Lannister's are willing to betray their liege lord to avenge a band of rebels." Robb summarised.

"Yes and no, your Grace. The Queen Cersei is not a good Queen; the small folk are losing love for her as well as her son. These, accusations of incest, make every House in the West, want the Lannister's gone." Ryger nodded. Jon glared. This was a trap, it had to be.

"I'm not a fool, Lord Ryger. I won't believe you and send my men into an ambush." Robb growled. Grey Wind, who had been sitting beside Robb all this time, stood up, his massive chest rumbling as he let out a menacing snarl.

The men backed away, the knights reaching for their swords but they did not draw them...not yet.

"No, your grace, I swear on my wife's life it is no trick." Lord Ryger swore. Suddenly, the other man, Lord Ryger's son, reached into the pack around his shoulder, and brought forth a bundle of scrolls, holding them out for Robb to take.

Carefully, Robb took the scrolls, unrolling one and quickly reading over the yellowish parchment. Jon watched his brother's face. A long moment later, Robb looked up and motioned to the guards standing nearby.

"Take them to their tent, keep them there until I say otherwise." He ordered.

"Y-your Grace," Lord Ryger stuttered, shocked at being dismissed so abruptly. "I have more to tell you."

"Until I know you are what you say, I will hear no more from you." Robb grunted as he looked back at the paper in his hands. With that, the guards all but pushed Lord Ryger and his men from the tent, leaving Robb and Jon alone. Grey Wind sat back down at Robb's side and Jon moved forward a step.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Letters from Westland lords swearing their swords to me." Robb replied hollowly.

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><p><strong>Three weeks later...<strong>

The little bump between her hips had seemed to appear overnight, a gentle swell that frightened her and fascinated her to no end. Maeve's eyes softened at she slowly ran her hand over the little, almost unnoticeable, distortion. There was a baby in there...it was so odd and she couldn't stop touching the curve.

Her dress was tight over her midsection, it was uncomfortable, the binds stretched completely and on the verge of tearing. She had mended the ties as best she could, but she would need a new dress soon.

Idly, Maeve ran her fingers on the bark of the old tree by the last remaining wall, one hand still feeling the new bump on her belly.

The last few weeks had been long, a dull sequence of sunrise to sunset, each day filled with nothing but walking amongst the ruins and ghosts of this dead holdfast, sitting by the river and eating the apples from the orchard and mulling over the uncertain future and the past she wanted to forget.

It was odd though, how...at home she felt here, ruined as it was. At night, she would lie against the last remaining wall, and look up toward the sky, feeling as if she had done so a hundred times before. In the day, she'd walk amongst the ruins and stream, a strange familiarity and sadness coming over her as she looked out at the remainders of the castle.

The others had never come for her, she never saw them again. Maeve cried tears at that loss, feeling both pleased and distressed. The final tie to her old life had been cut, leaving her floating in an abyss without meaning or purpose, another life that was devoid of any type of glory or honour there was.

It was time to leave, but the thought was troubling. What if she left and came into trouble along the way? What would she do for food? What if she never found refuge and was forever lost in the sea of tall trees and thick shrubs? What if she found some place to go, but found that she was not wanted?

She wanted to leave but she was afraid. In this place, there was no one to judge her, no one to whisper, no one to look. It was a novelty, a freedom never before experienced by Maeve, but it was also lonely. Each day made her feel more and more alone, and the feeling of isolation was a feeling she had no wish to prolong any further.

She would leave, soon. Maeve could only hope that this next step would be one in the right direction.

This—she ran her finger over her belly—would be worth it. This was her new purpose, taking care of the life inside her, making sure it grew up to be a good person, loved and cherished, with more honour than either of its parent's had.

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><p><strong>I am sooo sorry, if this chapter seemed sucky! <strong>

**Anyway, THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR THEIR REVIEWS! :D**

**please please review**


	11. Chapter 11: The Last Unicorn

Hey darlings! 

I hope u guys enjoy this chapter, and PLEASE let me know what you think! ;D

Don't forget the POLL!

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><p><strong>Chapter 11 <strong>

_**1 month later (5 months pregnant)**_

Following the river seemed to be a good idea at the time, but now Maeve wondered if there was ever an end to the thing she walked along now. The dry dirt beneath her feet had stained her worn boots a light brown colour and the bodice of her dress was nearly in shreds as her belly grew outward.

Her belly was far more pronounced now, the weight of the child inside making her back ache and her feet throb, making her feel almost a cripple. The summer was at the end, the leaves were starting to change and die, but Maeve still found some healing leaves, chewing them in her mouth and layering the green mush over her feet.

Maeve had followed the stream, watched as it flowed into a river and kept walking and walking and walking. Every day, she felt a little emptier, felt more of a stranger to herself. She acted out of mindless, meaningless instinct. Every step, every chewed up leaf, every day was mechanical, her body working day by day as her mind drifted off elsewhere.

She touched her curved belly, clothed by measly scraps...this was not the body of a septa. Maeve half wanted to stay alone so no one would ever see her shame, but the larger half grew lonely. Loneliness proved a harsh force, driving her toward the promise of company as a donkey driver dangles a carrot before his mule, the reward just out of reach.

She kept on.

Finally, she stopped at the side of the road, not able to walk anymore, and sat. Maeve stripped off her boots, cringing at the sight of her blistered feet. The outside of her feet, as well as the soles, were now marred and rubbed raw, the skin spitting and cracking, red flesh revealed beneath her peeling skin. The green mush she had spread across the ugly wounds had rubbed away and to her dismay, she saw no sign of any more of the leaf.

The sun moved across the ground with aching slowness, but Maeve took no notice as she sat there until the light finally disappeared beyond the trees. The wind carefully lifted her hair, tickling her chin as the dull, dry strands brushed against it.

Too many days she had traveled, too far had her feet walked, too thin her hope and courage had been stretched.

_A few says rest, just a few days, then I'll go again_, she promised herself. She feared that the promise would not come to be.

Pulling herself back and leaning herself up against the tree behind her, Maeve once again touched the curve that kept her child safe and warm. A fluttering sensation greeted her touch, the feeling still so shocking that she could scarcely manage the smile that wanted to get out as her heart burst in happiness.

Many nights ago, Maeve had not counted how many, she felt it for the first time, so faint that she had believed the movement to be something else. For a week she pondered over the feeling, a little worried, when suddenly realization hit her. Maeve felt immensely stupid for not knowing, people often marveled over a pregnant woman's belly, eager to feel what she felt, but quickly the feeling of foolishness faded, replaced by a calm yet giddy feeling.

Their..._her_ child was strong and growing and before very long they would come out and greet the world, screaming and red all over. The endless, unspoken question was always there, ever since she felt her baby move: Would it be her child or Jon's?

A baby that was a constant reminder of her lover, a child that had his...his black curls and white skin, his laughter and smile, his heart...she hated herself even more for the dread that came with this lovely little picture of a strong little boy or a beautiful little girl that looked just like their father. What she feared more than anything was that they would be like him and it would hurt so much that she would be unable to hold it, or look at it without her soul hurting. She feared that she would give her child coldness instead of motherly warmth and that they would grow to hate her. She was their mother, she should not care what they looked like, they would be hers—her child, boy or girl, her likeness or Jon's, she would not care, even if it hurt her.

The fluttering slowly stopped, leaving Maeve to her dreams and hopes and fears. She did not pray anymore, save for the little prayers for Jon's safety in battle and Allyria and her children's much deserved prosperity. Her heart was not in it anymore. Her faith in the Seven had waned until her trust was less than the trust a deer held for the hungry wolf. Belief in the deities of her youth did not drive her anymore. The only thing that did was the fluttering thing inside her.

Maeve closed her eyes; her legs brought close to her and fell asleep, dreaming of a world where Jon was with her and their child had both a mother and a father.

When next she opened her eyes, the day had come and with it the rocking sound of a wagon and the protesting whines of the mule drawing it.

The terrible feeling of loss at her fading dream was pushed aside as fear and excitement washed through her and she suddenly found herself very awake. Not far down the road, a small wagon was being pulled by a tired old mule, driven by an equally tired looking old man. Her heart leapt in her chest in a mixture of fear and happiness, and knew that he had not seen her, as the brush along the roadside covered her.

He drew closer and closer, the rickety creaking letting her know how close he came. She feared discovery, but feared the loss of this rare opportunity more.

Swallowing, Maeve carefully climbed to her feet, crying out sharply as she stood for a second on her battered feet. Suddenly the squeaky cart stopped but Maeve barely noticed as her feet gave out, sending her forward to the ground on her knees. Frantically, she put her arms out to catch her, the bleeding scrapes on her palms from the rocks was a small price to pay for her child's safety.

Maeve stiffened, slowly turning her head to look back at the man in the cart. He looked so surprised it was nearly comical, his mouth hanging open, his crooked old hands still holding the reigns of the donkey and his pointed cap still settled atop his bald, pink head. He was a fat man, no chin under his mouth.

For a long moment they were silent, when she finally managed to speak, "P-please" her voice sounded hoarse to her, proof that it had not been used in quite some time.

He then urged his mule forward toward her, her voice seemed to have broken him out of whatever surprise that had gripped him. Maeve still remained on the ground, an overwhelming feeling of relief coming over her.

It seemed the sun had finally come up in these dark days, a sweet end to this period of loneliness and of loss. She could sob but refrained, not wanting to frighten the old man off. Still though, tears welled up in her eyes.

When he rolled up next to her, he asked, "Are you fine, girl?" his voice was gruff, cautious as he tried to remain aloof. A stranger on the road was odd; a young girl alone on the road was even more suspicious.

"I...I..." she coughed. "I've been traveling for a long time." She said, her voice still croaking. "My feet," she motioned, "I cannot walk anymore." The old man blinked, but did not change his steely gaze. "Please," she rasped. "Are-are you going to town or a village? Please, I beg you, take me with you, I-I will pay you anyway I can." If she were not so desperate, Maeve would have feared a lusty look to overtake his wrinkled face, but at this point it didn't matter. She would runaway when she was well again before he could even try to lift up her skirts.

He stayed silent for a moment, sizing her up and looking around the road. Finally he said, "You will ride in the back, with my daughter and granddaughter, and you will find your own food and take _none_ of ours. Our water we will share with you but when we get to Golden Tooth, you will pay us ten golden dragons." While she was thankful he did not want her body, her heart dropped realizing what he wanted she could not give.

"I-I-I have," she paused. She had no money whatsoever, no gold nor silver nor coppers, and she was afraid that if he knew that he would refuse her a ride. _It was wrong to lie, the gods hated deceit_, the part of her that was still a septa whispered. _Think of the baby, you can take the ride and when the end is near, promise to pay them back another way_, another part of her said.

Maeve straightened up from her position on the ground, moving up so she knelt on her knees, her pregnant stomach revealed to the man. She touched her belly, thinking and weighing the options. It was not the best of offers, she had not found much food along this road and what food this man had, he would not share. It was a ride though.

"Yes, I will pay you ten pieces of gold." She swore finally. The old man nodded curtly, and gave a sharp nod toward the back of his cart.

"Don't wake them. Don't think I won't push you out myself if you do." Maeve did not reply as she carefully got to her feet, quickly shuffling toward the cart and latching her hand to the edge to keep from falling. A cry escaped her again, and tears of pain trickled down her face.

The old man hissed at her, and she opened her eyes and looked into the cart with her blurred eyes. Curled together in the back of the cart, two young girls laid together, sleeping so peacefully as if the hard wood of the cart they slept on was the plushest of beds.

The elder girl was very young, about sixteen years old, with orange hair that looked straight and tangled. She was pale, freckled, but pretty. The other girl was lying on the elder's chest, her head tucked under her mother's chin, the same thick orange hair falling down her shoulders. The little girl was about four years old, and if they hadn't looked so alike she might have took them as sisters.

When she carefully lifted herself into the back, settling as far away from the mother and her child as she could, the old fat man whipped the reigns again, making the donkey whine but walk forward nonetheless.

The girl and her daughter were surprised to see her when they awoke an hour later, but actually quite sweet. The mother's name was Tally, and her daughter's name was Dorna, a bastard from the Westerlands.

They traveled from Ashemark, fleeing from the war and to run to the safety of Golden Tooth.

When Tally saw Maeve's feet, she grew very worried and found some more healing leaf, and wrapped her feet in an old cloth she produced from a little pack she used as a pillow. Dorna, Tally's daughter, having seen Maeve's swollen belly, timidly gave the stranger her little portion of bread one night a few days after they met.

Maeve had refused, but the little child was persistent, and soon, Maeve was feasting on a slice of bread. Afterwards, as Dorna slept and Tally's father drove them on, Maeve said, "She's a sweet, sweet little girl."

Tally smiled, her chipped and crooked teeth showing without shame or embarrassment. She stroked her daughter's hair. "Aye, my little dove, she is." Tally looked back to Maeve, gesturing to her belly. "How far?"

Maeve thought a moment. "Five moons past."

"Ah, I see. Will he be a bastard when you name 'im? Or will he 'ave a name?" The bluntness of her question shocked Maeve a little, and slowly she answered.

"A...a bastard's name." She watched Tally's face, and saw a little flicker of judgement before it faded into softness.

"Someone force ya?" she asked kindly.

"No! No, no, I, um..." Maeve stuttered. She didn't want to explain to the younger girl how her situation came to be, and Tally seemed to sense that.

"Oh. Well it makes no matter. If he was married, old and ugly, or if he's dead, or if he paid you a pretty coin for a quick fuck, you get a little baby out of it." She said this with a sweet kindness, but Maeve was still offended.

How dare she think her a whore! How dare she think her a mistress to a married man! Maeve's eyes narrowed into a glare at Tally. The anger she felt was a surprising change from the shame that washed through her when the word was spat at her before.

Tally's smile faded at seeing Maeve's glare. "Don't. Call. Me. A. Whore." Maeve spat out. The back of her mind screamed at her that this was a sweet girl, who was kind enough to give her a ride and water and even help for her feet. But she had been called a whore too often, she knew that's what she was, she didn't need people to constantly remind her of it.

Tally's eyes widened, surprised by the other girls anger, and Maeve felt immediately guilty, but not enough to apologize.

That was all Maeve said, and that was the end of it.

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><p><em><strong>1 month later...<strong>_

Greif and anger can turn even the most honorable and good of men, driven by the basic need for comfort and assurance, damned be the consequences of afterward.

Jon was horrified with himself as he turned away from the girl behind him, both of them too stunned for words. It had all happened so quickly; one moment, they were talking, grinning at one another, the next, they were lying next to each other, breathless and spent. Maeve, he'd thought at first. I've just betrayed Maeve. The next thought was, my vows. He knew that the latter thought was truer than the first, he didn't have Maeve anymore, but his honor, or the recovering remains of it, was still there. But this still didn't make him feel any better. He felt like shit, like he deserved a good punch to the jaw.

The girl's name was Avera, she was a local girl, black haired and pretty, and surely no maiden. The way she moved was experienced, the way she showed no shyness when she unlaced her bodice.

They were still camped in Wayfarer's Rest. Robb did not want to advance too quickly yet, still fearing an ambush in the West. Why would the West Lords swear to Robb and not Renly, who was looking to claim the south?

Jon wanted strategies, plans and battles and training, he didn't want to be with this girl he barely knew, he didn't want the trouble of telling her this was a mistake and that he was sorry it happened.

It _had_ happened though.

He had been drinking at the local tavern after helping Robb draw up plans to meet with Renly at a neutral location, when Avera, the serving girl, served him another pitcher of dark ale. He had seen her before in this tavern, always bustling about, always serving him and leaving him again with sweet words.

After the third cup of ale, Avera's flirting finally paid off as Jon invited her to sit as the tavern slowly died down.

Now Jon found himself here, in her room above the tavern, wondering the quickest way out.

"This shouldn't have happened." He said suddenly, turning toward her. She stopped straightening her clothes and looked to him, her eyes wide and shocked. "This won't happen again." Jon stated firmly.

"B-but...I-we...we both _enjoyed_ it and, you'll be here for a while anyway. _Why not?"_ she demanded, her long narrow face twisting into the anger and embarrassment rejection usually came with. "I loved it and you did too! I _know_ you did! _Answer me!" _she screeched at Jon.

This scene was horribly familiar to Jon. He hated it and liked it at the same time. His heart twisted as he thought of Maeve.

And it was true, he _had_ enjoyed it, his body drinking in the pleasure he had not felt in such a long time. But it was wrong; had left him unsatisfied and with a bitter taste in his mouth.

"It was wrong. I'm sorry, but this won't happen again." Jon replied evenly. Avera glared at him, tears brimming in her eyes.

"_Fine_." She spat in a whisper. "Leave the coins on the table and go." Jon looked at her oddly. "You fucked me and now your leaving. So if you treat me like a whore, I'm going to be paid like one." She snapped angrily.

The tense moments that followed were some of the most terrible in Jon's life. Finally, though he felt even worse for it, he dug into his pocket, fished out three golden coins and set them on the table next to the bed.

Turning and leaving, Jon set off for Robb's war council tent, hoping to get his mind off the memories of Maeve and now Avera.

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><p>didn't expect THAT now did ya!<p>

**THank you all for your lovely reviews! please keep them coming! :)**

**Again**: Don't forget about the poll going on my profile! ;D


	12. Chapter 12: Safe and Sound

Hi! I know I'm a bad bad author, not updating sooner! Ah, the shame of it! *dramatic pose*

but I was stumped as to where to go with this story, I'm ashamed to say :S but I figured it out! HAVE NO FEAR!  
>Also, besides that, I got sick wound up in the hospital for a few days, I was freaking out and stressed out with finals and stuff, and things just got away from me...thank GOD it's summer!<p>

**also, I heared fanfiction's deleting stories with too much sex and violence in them! :O  
>NOOOOO<strong>

**Disclaimer: I own didly **

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><p><strong>Chapter 12 <strong>

Tally avoided Maeve at all costs after that night, and Maeve feared that Tally and her daughter's loss of interest in her would prompt the old man who drove the cart to throw her out on the side of the road. Why wouldn't he? Maeve was just a hindrance after all. She knew Tally meant no harm when she unintentionally insulted her, but the offence was done.

The cart rumbled beneath her bottom, jerking her back and forth in an almost nauseating manor. The bright and beautiful land they traveled by, seemed grey to Maeve. Grey and bleak and joyless.

The beauty of life was lost to her, the light in her eyes dimmed into a weak glimmer that was gone most of the time, only sparking up again when her baby kicked her, telling her she still had reason. Where was there to be joy when her heart was broken into a thousand little bits?

She had been so hurt when her order rejected her, but now as that grief converted to anger, only the hurt of losing Jon was left.

Her eyes looked out, but barely saw; she smiled but it never reached her eyes; she dreamt, but it only brought her mornings that made her long for a man she'd never see again, a life she'd never have. Days felt like years because she was alone now, even though Tally and the others were around.

Maeve rubbed her belly. Not completely. She grinned. She didn't know how to be a mother—how to bathe a baby, how to keep it healthy, how to raise it—but she loved her baby, and hopefully that might be enough to help her get through motherhood. She had some experience thanks to Allyria's children, but the thought of taking care of her own baby still worried her. What if she did it wrong?

Clearly love had not been enough for her and Jon. It did not save her from punishment, not from regret, not from shame. It brought them guilt and dishonour so deep that at one time, she could almost swear for certain she hated Jon as much as she loved him. Maeve was sure he had felt the same; he hated her for how much he needed her, wanted her, and loved her.

It was not long after they first made love, when the new feelings Jon gave her scared her but kept her coming back to him for more. It was scary and fun and exciting, and awful and heavy and beautiful and confusing, but for some reason worth it every single time.

But she denied herself the memories of bliss afterwards, hoping it had never happened, like it had all been a dream. These feelings of regret and joy were both so strong, and it made her angry to not know what she felt, what she wanted. Maeve had _always_ known herself, known what she wanted, what she liked, believed in...and Jon Snow took that away, and for that, she hated him.

But it was to be short lived.

It was a little funny. He had been walking past her during the day when they usually kept away from one another for appearances sake, when he smiled at her, quickly brushing his large hand against her smaller one making her tingle with blush...and then he was gone. That sweet smile he gave her was so full of sincerity, so full of truth that it made her ache in a way she hoped never ended. Strange how such a small gesture could change her eyes so quickly.

And after that, all thoughts of hatred toward Jon faded, but she could still be quite sharp with him at times. But he had loved her still, and she had loved him...

Love...it was said that the gods created it out of boredom, so we mortals might amuse them with our tears and suffering. That's what she had been taught, and had never thought of it again until now. That's why people of the sept were above all the rest; they kept their hearts locked away, free of pain and the chains of love, immune to the charms of it, so the gods favoured them over kings and warriors so bold. Love was the gods' blessing and a curse, it was the endless pursuit of devotion and passion so deep that it made hearts who never found it lament with grief, and to those who did find it, were doomed to despair when they lost it once more.

_That was why_; she thought suddenly, _the Seven gave me Jon to amuse themselves_. Slowly, a heavy feeling welled up inside her chest, a ball of hatred and anger made up of loss and grief. _Or is this still punishment for insubordination?_

No matter, never again. Never again would she give her heart, never again would she burn for a man the way she had for Jon...She just could not feel that it would happen. Her heart was gone to the winds, searching and yearning for someone she could not have.

Patiently, she awaited Dorna and Tally's arrival back to the cart, as the two young girls had gone off to wash up. Maeve had opted to stay behind with Tally's old father, who was currently watering the mule all the while muttering to himself about things she could not hear. He was a silent man, closed off to her, rarely speaking to even his daughter or grandchild.

Her feet had and healed the blisters and angry red welts were gone to scars, and rocks didn't bother her bare feet any longer. The dress she'd been lent was tight on her belly, her tender breasts and aching back, it was small and stopping just above her ankles. The weight of the child inside her made her feet ache in a different way, along with her back and knees. Ugly red stretch marks ripped the skin of her hips and waist, and over the lower part of her bulging stomach. She hated them, they were so ugly.

Once she might have chastised herself for the sin of vanity, but now she simply stopped caring about the sept. They hurt her, betrayed her for reasons she didn't understand anymore. Her breasts were sore and she found she needed to make her water more often, making the old driver grumble under his breath when she asked him to stop.

This whole thing was new to her. The aching back and feet, the evasion to precious food, the tiredness...she just hoped all she felt was normal. She worried every day that any ache and pain would cause her baby harm.

Before long passed, Tally and her daughter returned, Dorna clutching a handful of white and blue flowers, gazing at them with all the admiration she had. Maeve watched the child, a slow smile spreading across her lips as she observed the little girl's childish love of the pretty flowers.

The aches and pains and scares and changes will be worth it. Her smile dropped as suddenly as it came. But would it last with _her_ as a mother?

Some women observed and practiced and dreamt all their girlhood about motherhood; not Maeve. Never her. So how would she fare with this new little baby, this life she had carried inside her all these hard months, this little creature that was now totally dependent on her to keep them fed, keep them safe?

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><p>Jon sighed as he leant against the tree beside him, thankful for the sturdy support. Around him, delicate, fluffy white flakes fluttered down, sticking to the ground and his hair. Below him, he could see men at work, horses scattered and the angular shapes of tents. It was clear to see where the town of Wayfarer's Rest ended and Robb's battalion began, because there was a clear gap between them, that even he could see the white gash from all the way up here on the hill.<p>

He liked looking down at the encampment from the hill, he liked watching the tiny figures of men and horses bustle about. It almost reminded him of the Wall, and the year he'd spent there.

Jon had been thinking about the Wall a lot as of late, ever since he'd came from Avera's bed. A stab of shame hit him on the chest, Maeve's face inadvertently flashing through his mind.

How long could one man go on feeling like this? Hurt, angry..._ashamed?_ Why did he have to be ashamed for loving Maeve, when even Jaime Lannister proudly flaunted his love for his own sister? Where was his fault in loving someone so beautiful, so good and so distinctly Maeve? Why did the world hate them for it, where was the perverse sin in that?

He knew the answers to all of these questions by heart as it came with being a bastard. He knew them, but as time went along, and he fell deeper and deeper in love with the septa, the answers faded away, creating questions that no longer made sense to him.

Two, nearly three years ago, these thoughts would have never occurred to him. But then he had never wanted someone as he wanted Maeve, not just her body, but her heart and soul as well.

He _still_ wanted her, but he would never have her. He never even truly had, he suddenly realized. While they loved one another and sacrificed their virtues for it, they still belonged to something else. Him to the Night's Watch, shackles broken as they were, but still bound by vows, Maeve was forever tied to a holy order that owned her body, and mind. Jon had known that they were doomed to failure, from the first time his lips touched hers, to the last time he held her back in Robb's tent when they'd been discovered. It was a dangerous game they played, but neither could bring themselves to stop; it felt too good, _too right_.

Back at the Wall he'd sworn to never have a wife nor father any children, to hold no lands or titles and know no glory. How many times had he thought of earning glory and honor as Ranger? He'd dreamt about it since he was a boy. That was all he'd wanted really, to prove himself, to make people see he was more than a bastard.

He'd given that up when word came of war.

As he stared down at the soldiers below tracking through the white fluff that fell thick on the frozen ground, he wondered again if he should return to his post.

He knew he'd most likely be killed upon his arrival as an oath breaker, but he still harboured the vain hope to be spared and given clemency, enough to regain his lost honour. Jon knew the hope to be in vain, but that didn't stop him from wishing, or dreaming, or planning.

Turning away from the distant camp below, Jon returned to his task of watching the surrounding wood for any approaching army or spy. With the horn strapped to his waist it felt much more like the Wall, all white and high up as he was.

Jon felt a bit blind without Ghost near. The feeling was constricting, worrying because he had no idea where the great white beast had gotten to. He hadn't seen Ghost since that night with Avera, as his wolf had even felt ashamed of him. Jon called and called but it was no use, Ghost never came.

Jon would know if something had happened to Ghost, he would feel it. And so far he felt nothing to suggest that anything had happened to his wolf. Still, Jon felt his companion's absence heavy on his chest.

He sighed, wishing to see familiar red eyes among the snow, but continued his watch.

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><p>It was difficult to avoid the tavern after that night with Avera. Men liked the tavern, the warmth, the beer, the women, it lured them in with the promise of forgetting the horrors they'd seen, but Jon found that he couldn't go there afterwards.<p>

So instead, he drank with the knights and squires and foot soldiers on the edge of town where their camp was set. It was not so different from the tavern, except there were fewer women, snow swirling overhead and men and horses alike pissing and shitting about where they saw fit. Jon was glad for it, though he did not prefer this cold and wet lot he found himself saddled with, they did not make him feel like a sad dishonoured husk of a man.

Jon sat close to the fire, warming his body as he sat crouched on the ground. Other men sat near, playing cards or dice games, some sharpening knives and talking and laughing with one another, anything to stave off boredom and the cold. Not far from his little fire, was a group of Lord Ryger's men mixed with some humble foot soldiers of the North.

Lord Ryger had still been denied the King's attention as he was still suspected of treachery. Robb was so far treading lightly in finding out if the west was truly seeking to overthrow their liege lord and swear to him. It was a challenge. If what Ryger swore was true, what would stop the west from rising up and destroying Robb after he'd won their battle? If it was false, what were their plans that involved such a clumsy attempt to lure Robb in?

All these lies, all the rumours and games people played in this war was tiring. Men lied to their closets friends every day to ensure their safety, because in this battle of kings, only the liars survived. Once again, Jon wished he had Ghost with him at least, he wished he could feel his white fur between his fingers.

"Does he ever stop moping?" one man asked as he and his mates gathered around another, larger fire, not far from Jon.

His companions looked toward the bastard in question and shrugged.

"Believe it or not, there was once a time when the bastard actually smiled once in a while." A large bald man recalled. "O'course, that was when he was fucking that pretty little septa." He smiled hungrily, remembering how the little woman made him actually want to find religion at his age. His yellow teeth looked almost brown in the dim light.

"You better keep quiet," a smaller, skinnier man warned from beside him. "I heard he nearly gutted Theon Greyjoy like a fish for talking about her." The man whispered worriedly. Of course it was a rumour, but it did have some small truth to it.

"Why? It ain't like she's the only woman 'round." The first man replied, watching a village woman walk by.

"Eh," the fat man grunted uninterestedly. "The lad's first woman."

Cautiously, a squire approached Jon Snow. He was a high born lad, unused to the gruff randy attitudes of the men yet, and approached his king's brother nervously. "Master Snow" he addressed, his cap clenched tight between his hands.

"What?" Jon asked looking up and finding his brother's squire standing before him. Jon looked back down to the fire.

"Uh, His Grace r-requests you come to s-see him at once, sir." The boy's voice was shaky as he spoke, rushing though the words to be over and done with already.

For a moment Jon seemed not to have heard, but after a moment's hesitation, he abruptly stood. "Better not keep him waiting." He muttered, already walking away from the squire. Bemused, the boy turned and rushed after Master Snow.

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><p>When Jon entered his brother's tent he was met with Lord Ryger, his squire and Robb. Only the three of them which was odd, even Grey Wind was absent.<p>

"What's is it then?" he asked, looking at Robb. Robb stared back, his eyes hard and cautious, and Jon knew why his brother had called on him: he wanted Jon's insight. Their relationship was in shambles but Robb still trusted Jon with the important matters above any of his lords.

"Lord Ryger has an...interesting claim." Robb said, looking back at the old man, and the steward beside him.

"What?"

The old man swallowed, and stood straighter, looking at Ned Stark's bastard. He resented the fact he had to answer to a _bastard_, who by any right shouldn't be alive. He'd heard the rumours; the boy who deserted the Night's Watch but was spared by his Kingly brother...how he'd degraded a Septa of the Seven and escaped harsher punishments, with only whipping scars up and down his back.

Lord Ryger saw Jon Snow as a man who used his brother's power to escape justice, and so glared at the dark haired lad with as much resentment he could muster.

"This," Lord Ryger motioned to the man behind him, his steward. "is Garrett." Garrett was a tall man, broad as well. His hair was long and dark red, falling over his pale eyes. His cheek was marred with a long, jagged scar, and his eyes were haunted. "His mother was, Lady Violet Reyne," he paused letting the truth sink in. "And his father was Lord Eli Reyne. Garrett is the _sole heir_ to House Reyne's seat at Castamere."

Both brothers looked to the young man beside the old one, seeing him in an entirely new light.

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><p>"<em>The valley green was so serene, and in the middle ran a stream, so bluuuueeee..<em>." Tally sang to her daughter that night. They took up camp on the side of the road, the three female's taking the bed of the cart, while the old man slumbered next to his mule. Maeve didn't feel bad for taking up space in the cart, because the old man did look quite happy sleeping there next to the donkey. It was nearly funny.

"_A maiden fair, in despair, once had met her true love there, and she told him, she would say, 'Promise me when you see, a white rose you'll think of me,'" _Tally continued, her voice growing softer as her daughter closed her eyes. Maeve smiled softly at the two of them. Tally was such a kind mother, so happy despite the fact she obviously had nothing and no one besides her father and child.

"_I love you so, and will never let go, I will be your Ghost of a Rose,_" Dorna did not seem to care that her mother's voice was not exactly very beautiful. It was just having her close, having her mother near, Maeve supposed, and singing to her that gave the child comfort, just having her mother there.

Suddenly a question formed on her lips, and before she could stop, she spoke. "Where is her father?" Tally looked up, and Maeve felt ashamed for asking such a question, but Tally had asked her a similar question before, so why should she apologize? She still did though.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." Maeve said hastily. Despite her annoyance toward the girl for interring she was a whore Maeve did like and respect Tally a great deal.

Tally straightened her back, no longer looking down at the small girl who was sleeping soundly with her head on her lap. "No, no, it's fine. He was a customer." Tally said gently, nudging Maeve's shoulder with her own as a sign there was no insult felt.

"A customer?" Maeve asked dully. Tally raised an eyebrow. Oh...oh..._OH!_ Maeve's mouth dropped at her stupidity. She smiled when she heard Tally give a little chuckle at her expense.

"Yes. He was a...a regular, I guess. He liked me best; n always paid for me over t'other girls, the older ones who were tall with bigger tits. He liked to kiss my ears and neck, and he liked to fall asleep after, curled up against me." Tally recalled. "He was only two years older than me, and he was tall." Tally smiled.

"How old were you?"

"Three-and-ten." Maeve nodded, knowing that most girls who had no other options usually went into the pleasure houses as soon as they were flowered. "Then he was thrown from a horse, he fell and broke open his beautiful head, and he died. And he left me with my Dorna inside me." Tally said sadly. Maeve saw the younger girl's eyes glisten and her ginger brows pinch together in despair.

Maeve wrapped an arm around her, not thinking, only hoping to bring some comfort to the usually beaming girl. It was not right seeing someone so happy, so sad.

"I was told that the good go to a beautiful place when they die, a place where they wait for their loved ones to meet them when they die. It really is beautiful there, where it's always summer, there are no wars, no heartbreak, no death or loss...just..._happiness_." Maeve smiled as she said this, a far off look in her eye as she tried to recall who told this to her. It wasn't the sept, but she couldn't remember where she'd heard this. The words were a warm blanket around her, comforting and warming.

"The sept tell you that? Some high and mighty Septon on a stand somewhere, saying the sinners and whores and liars and cheats and bastards go to hell, while the rest get the Land of Eternal Summer?" Tally scoffed bitterly, sadness lacing her words.

"No," Maeve said. "Someone I can't remember told me. But I think it's true. Besides, you've got Dorna."

Tally perked up a little at that, sliding her fingers thorough her daughter's ginger hair. "Aye, I do," she nodded shakily. She looked at Maeve, once again nudging her shoulder. "What about you? Where's his father?"

Maeve froze, and bit her lip. Her hand went to her belly. What could she tell her about Jon? Everything she guessed, there was no danger in it. But could she? Would it hurt too much? Over the last six months her thoughts and emotions had built up high inside her, and she knew she'd need to talk about it soon before she suddenly screamed out her anger and loss to the world, or broke down and wept for day or anything worse.

She looked to Tally. "His name was, J-Jon," gods she was stuttering already. It was the first time she'd spoken about him since she was taken from Robb Stark's camp, it was the first time she spoke his _name_ aloud since they last made love, when he planted their child inside her. "He was—"

Suddenly they were rushed, men running toward them from the trees, spears up and ready to kill if any of them should move. The loud clanking of their armour and the beat of their footsteps on the ground awoke the old man by his donkey, and Dorna in her mother's arms.

The child clung to her mother, and Tally pressed her daughter's head against her breasts, her eyes flashing frantically as the men closed in around them.

Maeve flinched back as a spear was pointed at her chest, gasping in terror and holding to her belly, fearing that her child would never live past this night.

"Hello, hello, hello." A voice said suddenly. It was then Maeve noticed, that the colours on their breast plates, were of crimson red background, with a golden lion over it.

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><p>I also have no credit to the song, it's "Ghost of a Rose" by Blackmore's Night<p>

**Karen- Thank you SOOOO MUCH for your review! **Seriously, keeps me going! :DI know Tally has no right to judge Maeve, but as in life, we judge people we have no right to judge.

THank you all for your amazingly, awesome and fantastic and beautiful and continued support! **You are all BEAUTIFUL**! :D

**Also, it's probably gonna get a bit M-ish, in the next chapter, if ya know what I mean *wiggly eye brows***

**REVIEW!**


	13. Chapter 13: Shattered

**Warning! this chapter deals with rape/attempted rape.  
><strong>I know I promised good M-ness, but saddly, this one must come first...:)

**Also: 58 reviews..._58!_ thank you all, once agian...you're reviews really drove this one on!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 13 <strong>

"Traitors, eh? Whores with wolf pups?" the man grunted out, shooting a look to the still terrified women at the back of the cart. No one answered the travelers still too terrified to speak. Maeve felt her baby kicking her palm as her hand rested protectively over the swell. _It's alright_, she found herself thinking, _it's alright, I won't let them hurt you. I'll keep you safe._ She was answered was a hard kick against her palm.

"No matter." The man gave a sharp nod to the man pointing his spear at Maeve. In a flash, his weapon was pulled away and his hand struck forward and tangled itself in Maeve's long hair, yanking violently, his strength no match for her resistance.

"Ah!" she cried out in pain as he wretched her forward, her hair tearing from her head, her body slamming painfully into the side of the cart as he yanked her forwards, her belly knocking unbearably against the hard wood. _No!_ Her mind screamed out in agony, as a violent, desperate cry escaped her mouth.

He didn't stop pulling though, and kept on as though he could wretch her right through the wooden barrier between them. Her scalp burned as he tore her hair out, tears blurred her eyes and finally her body could take no more, and finally responded and shifted so he could actually pull her over the cart side. Her knees collided with the ground, the pain to sudden, it stunned her senses, and when the Lannister soldier heaved her up to her dead feet, her knees buckled, and only his painful hand kept her from crumbling to the ground.

Tally's screams sounded through the dark night now, and the heartbreaking whimpers of a terrified child accompanied them. Her child kicked her fiercely now, giving her some relief at knowing he was still safe inside her. Still, sobs of pain and fear came from Maeve, tears trailing lines down her dirty face.

"Please not my daughter! _Please don't hurt them!"_ for a moment, Maeve didn't realize it was the old man cart driver who'd spoken, as his voice was so unexpectedly loud. A smack cracked through the air as a fist collided against the old man's face, Tally's cries grew louder, and Dorna's whimpers grew into wails of fear, then they quietened suddenly. A soldier slipped a knife against Tally's side, pressing into her belly, but also dangerously close to Dorna's neck. Dorna clutched to her mother, his face buried in her stomach, unaware of the danger so close to her.

"Shhhh..." the man holding Tally whispered in her ear. "Sh, sh, sh." Tally sniffled as he pushed his hips against her bottom, tears brimming in her eyes as she realized what he wanted.

The painful hand in Maeve's hair pulled away, but there was little relief as he tore chunks of long, red-brown strands away with him. Her knees refused to hold her weight, but before she could crumble, the meaty arm of her captor pulled her flush against him, not caring that he was abusing a pregnant woman. Women got pregnant all the time, and it wasn't hard to make another bastard if one died.

"Where's your gold? Give all ya gold and silver and coppers to me, _now_!" The man behind Maeve shouted at the old man. At this moment, Maeve felt immensely ashamed for not having learned the driver's name. She feared that tonight they'd meet their gods without ever having learned the name of the man who'd saved her life.

There was some fumbling, and the soft _'clink, clink, clink_' of the coins rattling in their purse. Maeve's tears made her blind, but she could see there was a group of them, she could see the blurry blob of the old man on the ground, digging frantically through a satchel, and she could see Tally holding her daughter as a skinny man stood behind her.

The Lannister leader took the purse, his eyes glowering down at the old man as he shook the little leather pouch, unsatisfied with the few _clinks_ he heard.

"Not much here is there?" he grunted as he pocketed the purse. If Maeve hadn't been so scared, she might have noticed how calm, how soft his voice was for a man who led a brigade that had no qualms about abusing the elderly or pregnant women.

The old man flinched, a fine dew of sweat sheeting his forehead, his eyes flashing once to Tally and Dorna, both who looked so terrified. "I-we-we haven't got much, ser, t-the Stark's," his mind worked for a lie to tell him, to prove his loyalty to House Lannister, when movement caught his eye. The meaty man behind Maeve wretched her upwards once more, one arm secure and tight just below her breasts, while the other grabbed at her hip, slowly crawling its way upwards. Maeve clenched her eyes shut.

"Her!" the old man shouted suddenly, pointing accusingly at Maeve. Maeve's eyes snapped open, and the leader's eyes looked to her as well. "Sh-she promised me _ten_ gold dragons for passage to Gol'n Tooth! She has gold!"

Cold, greedy eyes turned to her; she blushed under their scrutiny, terrified of what they would do when they did not get what they wanted.

The leader walked around the cart and close to her, every slow and steady step, menacing and dropping her heart further and further to the ground. When he was close enough that she could smell the rot of his teeth on his breath, he spoke. "You don't have money do ye?" He didn't glare or say this in a harsh way, but the smile that accompanied the statement made her skin crawl.

Frightened, she shook her head twice. His grin grew into a smile. "Well, you're gonna have to offer us _something_, if you want to pass." Tally held back a sob, and Maeve drew in a horrified breath.

"Boys," he addressed his men, stepping away from her. "Do as you will."

"_No!"_ the old man yelled once, when her was suddenly run through with a spear.

A soldier stepped forward and grabbed Dorna from her mother's arms, while the skinny man holding Tally stumbled backwards with the screaming mother still locked away in his arms. Dorna screamed and wailed, reaching for her mother. The soldier who'd pulled her away, turned her around and savagely stuck the child across the face, sending her to the ground, quiet and bleeding.

Tally screamed louder, one hand clawing at the air towards her fallen daughter, while the other feebly tried to push the man behind her away. The man threw her to the ground, stunning the young ginger a moment, before he pinned her down with his own skinny body.

Maeve, meanwhile, struggled fiercely, twisting and squirming in the man's arms, trying to get away to save her child.

The meaty man behind her pulled her tight against him, using his heavy body to push her to the ground, belly down. It was very uncomfortable, like lying on a ball, made worse by her terrified struggles.

"No!" she screamed. _Please, please gods no! Have mercy! Anything but this!_ She thought as she felt hot breath on her neck as the man pressed his large body against her smaller one. Maeve began to sob now, whimpers of "no" and "stop" falling on deaf ears.

It would be nothing like with Jon; Jon was tender, sweet and loving, he was passionate and cared if she felt the same pleasure he did...this man, if one could even call this creature that, was rough, he whispered dirty, loveless things in her ear, he wasn't gentle as he reached for the hem of her too short, too tight dress. Her legs kicked out, her free hands reaching behind her to claw and slap, only to have both hands pinned together above her head and a knife at her throat.

"Stop that, you little bitch," he hissed in her ear, the tip of his knife slicing her skin. She hissed. To prolong her suffering, he slowly dragged the knife across her once smooth, white throat, leaving a bleeding line. He let go of her hands, but did not move the knife, and Maeve dared not move, knowing if she did, she would be dead.

He began to push up her dress.

"No, please my baby!" Maeve sobbed. It was then, Maeve could faintly hear Tally's silent sniffles, and Maeve's heart broke for the poor girl...neither she nor Tally deserved this. This was horrible, this was terrifying...no one deserved this...

"Shut your trap!" he screamed in her ear. "With any luck, by the time we're done with you, you'll have a lion cub in ya rather than a wolf's bastard."

Maeve only cried harder as the fabric drew higher and higher up her legs.

* * *

><p>The dream had started out so sweet. Jon dreamt he was running, the woods rushing past him in a dark blue, Maeve's sweet voice carrying from somewhere far away. Her voice was far, it was faint, but it was <em>her<em>.

He could hear her with his sharp ears; he could hear her talking about someplace, someplace beautiful she said. He could hear another voice as well, but he didn't care, he only cared about _her_, his Maeve.

Then the wind changed and he could smell them: meat. Vicious humans, the humans that stunk of cruelty and malice, the ones that would be _eaten_ by animals when he was finished with them, the ones who were nothing but meat and bones, he could smell them, and Jon could hear them in the trees.

His legs moved faster, the sounds of crying and screaming driving him forward, toward Maeve and whatever danger she was in. His heart pounded inside him, and the blackness of the night around him did not seem to end, and for a moment, with the echo of her voice in his ears, he feared he had lost her.

Jon stopped, turning his body to the north, the east, the south and the west, desperately willing her to make a sound louder than a whisper, praying for the wind to change once more and give him her scent, so he could find her. For an endless moment he heard nothing but his own heart pounding in his ears, but then he heard a blessed thing, her scream.

"No, please my baby!" as clear and loud as ever. His ears perked up, and her shot off toward where he'd heard her. Excitement and terror mixed in his veins, the overwhelming joy that he had found her again twining with the fear of what she had been caught in.

Her sobs grew louder as he ran and ran, and never before had Jon been grateful for such a sad and heartbreaking sound.

The trees ended with a wall of bare and dead plants, and all of a sudden, he broke through them and onto a road, where he found five Lannister men doing what Lannister's do.

What noticed first was the man on top of a woman on the ground, and it took Jon all but three seconds to realize it was Maeve, sobbing as the bastard pinning her pulled up her dress as he held a small knife against her neck.

He growled, snapping his jaws and drawing attention from the fuckers hurting her.

Blind fury overtook him, when Maeve didn't look up, a silent sign of submission. He charged at the bastard on top of her. He would not let them hurt her, he would kill them first.

Jon was vaguely aware of the deep voiced screams of the men as he ripped them apart, he could taste the iron in their blood, feel their bodies stop moving beneath his, and when he was done, he stood over one for a long moment, growling silently, blood dripping from his jaws, waiting for the bastard to move again so Jon could _kill him_ again.

Unsteady, shuttering breath finally met his ears, and he turned. He saw another woman, lying stunned on her back, her dress bunched up around her waist, blood on her face and chest from when Jon ripped her rapists' neck out while he was still raping her.

He looked farther on, and past dead bodies of the animals he had just killed, was Maeve, sitting up and staring at him, her steely grey eyes both terrified and relieved. Her hand moved suddenly to rest upon her belly.

They watched one another for a long moment, neither daring to move. Jon felt like he could not breathe, he felt like he was floating. She looked so different, yet much the same, for it hadn't even been a year since they were taken from each other. She was skinnier, save for around her belly (Jon did not think of that yet, still to amazed to see her there after so long). Her hair was longer, less lustrous than he'd ever seen it. A trickle of blood dripped down her neck and onto her breasts from the slice on her beautiful, pale throat. Her face was dirty, but still as beautiful as he remembered. She was Maeve..._Maeve!_

He wanted to run to her, hug her, kiss her, tell her he'd never let anyone hurt her again, and he was about to, when she whispered, _"Ghost?"_

Suddenly the spell was broken, and Jon shot up from his bed, a cold sheen of sweat on his skin, his heart and head pounding.

_Maeve...Ghost...she, those Lannister's...so real...vivid dreams...she was...swollen with a child!...I...it was a dream, is all it was..._

Jon's thoughts were jumbled for the rest of the night, and the next night as well and the night after that. He would not sleep for two nights, terrified of where his dreams would bring him, of what he would see with his dire wolf's red, wise eyes.

* * *

><p>I got no pleasure from this chapter, only at the end :)<br>The rest made me very uncomfortable...how does GRRM do it!

please review, sad and disturbing a chapter as it is...please...please...please...please?


	14. Chapter 14: Timshel

**Hey! I really hope you guys like this chapter! I didn't know where to end off, and how to end it, so please tell me how I did and review!**

**Also, this will be the last chapter for a while, as I'm going to camp on the 1st, until the 7th, so sadlly, I will not be able to update :(**

**(name of this chapter is after the Mumford & Sons song, Timshel)**

**and finally:: YES! reunion soon...and don't forget THE POLL, and I am still taking name suggestions!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14 <strong>

Maeve held Tally close to her as she cried, the ginger girl's tears wetting the fabric of her bodice. Maeve paid no mind, and just held the other girl, stroking her tangled hair. It was out of mutual comfort that they held to one another, silently assuring the other that they were not alone. They knelt on the ground, and Maeve's feet were losing feeling as she stayed there for an unmeasured amount of time.

One arm curled around Tally's shoulders, while the other held her belly, rubbing it unconsciously. Her baby nudged her palm, and Maeve gave a smile at that. _Can you feel me, baby? I can feel you_, she thought, gently rubbing where she felt the movement.

Tally held her own child close, Dorna half asleep against her mother's bosom. Dorna had woken up nearly half an hour after those monsters had been killed, but she was in pain and barely opened her eyes. Tally grew frantic at seeing the gash on her child's brow, screaming and begging her daughter to open her eyes properly. Maeve had calmed the girl, assuring her that child only needed rest and that there was no serious damage done. This only made Tally start sobbing.

So they stayed like that until the sun began to come up, illuminating the dead and bloody bodies around them. Maeve bit back a gag as she spied the dead body of the leader lying motionless at the ground, the useless purse of coins lying limp in his hand. Flies flew around his corpse, landing in the bloody mess of his neck. Scavengers would come soon, and Maeve worried what they'd do when they found fresh meat not a few feet from the rotting carcasses. Suddenly, at that moment, hatred—deep and black—grew towards these men, who had hurt two helpless women and a child with no remorse.

In the sept, no one ever told her how..._horrific_ it was, to be caught in a predators clutches without a hope of escape, to be cornered and terrified of the horrors you were about to face. This was a terrifying and harsh eye-opener, making her realize how dangerous this world was. The septon's had preached that murderous, wicked men like these men were the result of their whore mothers' fornications and sin, punishment from the gods. She didn't know if that was true anymore; maybe some men were just born wicked, for surely the gods could not produce such hateful creatures? But then again, they could do anything.

Maeve sniffled as her baby kicked once more. She had failed her child...she swore to protect him, but hadn't...if Ghost hadn't...she would have..._her baby_...

Her eyes clenched shut. She wanted to do something; to vow to never be that vulnerable, to swear her child would never come under threat again, or to somehow atone for her weakness. In her heart, Maeve felt like she'd failed her child before it even left her womb...if Ghost had not saved her—saved _them_—gods knew where she would be now. She had been helpless to protect her baby and although she knew that she was not at fault, her heart still ached.

Eventually, Tally's body stopped wracking with sobs and just let Maeve hold her and her daughter, tears silently slipping down both girls' dirty and bloody cheeks. As the sun began to shine through the trees, Maeve knew they needed to leave..._now_.

"Come on." Maeve whispered, pulling away from Tally. "We've got to leave. Up you get." Tally said nothing, but pulled away as well, and slowly, both girls stood, their joints popping and aching from kneeling so long.

Maeve felt disgusting. Blood stained her dress, the blood of the man who'd tried to rape her. It itched on her skin, it stiffened her hair where it had dried, and smelled awful. Dirt dusted all over her front from when he'd pinned her to the ground, but this wasn't all that made her feel filthy. Her skin needed a good hard scrub, to wash away any smell the man had left behind, to get rid of whatever memory he had seared into her skin.

For the first time in what felt like a very long time, Maeve thanked the Seven above for having mercy on her and her child, for sending them Ghost.

But looking at Tally, it was clear she was not so fortunate. The blood on Tally's clothes made Maeve cringe, but the bruises on her cheek and neck made her happy these men were dead. She had been taught that death was a sad affair, the sept preaching you should never wish any person ill, no matter how cruel or vain...but Maeve rejected that teaching now. She was sure no one would miss these men.

Maeve reached out to touch Tally's hand, but the girl flinched back, her body recoiling without Tally meaning to.

"I'm sorry," Maeve whispered, wishing she could say something more to comfort the girl. "Let me take her, while we find somewhere to..._wash_." she held out her arms for the child, not really wanting to bear her weight, but willing to.

"No." Tally replied hastily, holding Dorna closer. "No, we're fine...we're fine." She whispered, but it was very clear that they were not. Maeve nodded.

They lingered there a while, steadying themselves on their unsteady feet, wary of any enemy that may present themselves. But in the morning light, the world was still, only a soft breeze moving the trees and fallen leaves through the air. Only they and the mule remained alive and suddenly the absence of the one who'd saved their lives was made terribly obvious.

Maeve looked around them, but found no sign of the white dire wolf. The dead bodies on the ground were the only evidence that he had ever been. Had she imagined it? There was no way that was Ghost...yet it was, _it had to be_. Wolves never grew that big, unless they were dire wolves, and _none_ beyond the Wall were white. But where _was_ he?

After she whispered the animal's name, shocked at its sudden and unexpected (but _incredibly_ welcomed) presence, the creature seemed to flinch. It blinked its red eyes once, and for a second, she could swear something had changed within Ghost with just that one instant, but he had turned away so suddenly and ran away and was gone so quickly, she could not be sure. Still in a state of shock, she did not think to call for him.

Maeve's heart quickened. Ghost meant Jon. Jon never went anywhere without Ghost and Ghost never went anywhere without Jon. They were too close to leave the other very far behind. She drew in a trembling breath. So many different things swirled inside her, a tidal wave of pure emotion that pulled her under and knocked her from one feeling and hope to the next. She was crossed between heart aching excitement and longing, and disbelief and fear.

But Ghost was gone, as if he was never there, if he ever was. Maeve worried a little that she'd gone mad from tiredness, the stress from the night making her see things that were not there.

Still too shocked for words or action on this new development, Maeve and Tally mechanically walked to the side of the road, where the river flowed towards Golden Tooth. Neither thought of any danger.

Maeve stripped herself bare, wading into the frigid waters of the river. Tally sat down on the river bank, holding her daughter close, still refusing to let the little girl out from her arms. She would bathe later when Maeve was done and could watch over Dorna, and she would bathe longer and scrub herself raw.

Maeve's hands roughly rubbed water over her filthy arms, leaving the pale skin an irritated red. She stood in the freezing water up to her hips, not caring that she was starting to shiver violently from the cold of the air and the water. She scrubbed herself down; she cupped water over her body and watched the blood fade into the water. Her scalp stung when she washed her hair of the blood, the wounds that came from her hair being torn out, burning at the cold water's touch.

Her mind was whirling, adding to her aggressive washing. Thoughts of Jon, Ghost, and all that had happened in the night brought tears to her eyes. What were they going to do?

* * *

><p>A gentle breeze lifted Maeve's damp hair, something sadly gentle compared to the harshness of the day.<p>

Her arms throbbed with hidden bruises that the man had given her with his cruel hands, but she held Dorna tightly against her, the girl resting on her hip. Dorna had awoken not long ago, and her little head still hurt from being hit, and a bruise began to colour her round cheek. Despite the hurt in her head, she seemed to be alright, and Maeve was grateful she had not seen her mother violated or the death that saved them. Children should not see such things.

Maeve's dress was dried and the blood was an ugly, smelly brown against the pale blue. It would be useless to wash the dress, the blood had stained. Her hair was damp hair hung lifelessly down her back, dripping onto the ground in large, fat droplets. Dorna wearily watched her mother work, slumped against Maeve heavily, causing the elder girl's body to protest. The child had not spoken since she opened her eyes, but neither Maeve nor Tally pushed her just yet.

Tally sat by her father's body, tears dripping from her chin as she gently laid some ferns and small flowers over his chest. They'd pulled out the spear from his chest, and Maeve and Tally nearly wretched at seeing the mangled flesh and bone and quickly covered Dorna's eyes from the disgusting sight. They threw the murderous thing away into the bush, and it was then that more body-wracking sobs rolled though Tally's small form. Still, although tears half blinded her, Tally did not stop until her father looked ready and presentable to meet his gods.

"He," Tally sniffed. "he wasn't th-the best father, but he k-kept me n' Dorna s-s-safe." She said as she satby his body, looking as small and scared as a child.

Maeve said nothing, but felt an uncomfortable need to do something, give some kind of comfort. As a septa...they used to sing when someone dear died. In her sept, their voices, both strong and meek, carried through the stone halls, lifting into the air, as sweet and sad as the seven oils that burned for seven days and nights. She had not been a Silent Sister who looked in the face of death and did not flinch, one who prepared the bodies of the dead and laid them down in the earth to rest.

No, she had been a septa, her duties had been to helping women and children, helping them _live_ better days. The faintest prickle of loss hit her at remembering her old life.

Saying nothing, Maeve knelt down next to Tally, handing Dorna over to her mother. After a moment of silence, Maeve pulled both Tally and Dorna up and carefully steered them toward the cart.

Maeve did not _want_ to take care of the mother and child—she had her own baby to take care of—but could not bring herself to abandon the pair alone without anyone. She pitied the ginger haired girl; her heart ached for the way she had suffered the night before, in losing both her father and her dignity in the same night. Maeve also feared what were to happen if she continued on alone, what dangers she may face alone or the loneliness that may develop. And above all, her child would quicken soon, and enter the world, so it would be safer and better for her baby if she remained with a girl who'd birthed one before.

So, as gently as she could, Maeve pushed them into the cart bed.

"Sleep. Just sleep, you're safe." She whispered to Tally and Dorna, and Tally looked up at her with sad and wounded eyes. Like she had when she first met them, Maeve looked down at the pair in the cart bed, and reached her hand down and took Tally's hand in her own. The younger girl's hand locked in Maeve's tightly, her lower lip trembling as she fought the urge to cry again.

"_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,  
>Save our sons from war, we pray.<br>Stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
>Let them know a better day."<em>

Maeve didn't know why she sang, but she hoped it calmed their tears. She had seen Tally sing to Dorna the night before, and lulled the girl into peaceful dreams, and hoped—perhaps vainly—that Maeve's song did the same.

"_Gentle Mother, strength of women,  
>Help our daughters through this fray.<br>Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,  
>Teach us all a kinder way.<em>

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,  
>Save our sons from war, we pray.<br>Stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
>Let them know a better day."<em>

Maeve finished sweetly, her voice softened by the wind blowing around them.

They stayed like that for a while, Maeve humming gently, and slowly, Tally and Dorna's eyes grew heavy and her grasp on Maeve's hand grew limp. She gave a relieved sigh as the girls fell asleep, hoping that their dreams gave them peace. Gently pulling her hand from Tally's, Maeve walked forwards, her steps slow, and stopped alongside the mule, who snorted softly at her approach.

She stroked the donkey's long snout.

Her brows pinched together in worry. What would become of them now, where were they to go? Ghost had run away and there was no hope to find him, he was too fast, too agile. Her heart sank, and tears swam in her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day. They wouldn't be safe by themselves...and Ghost was gone and couldn't lead her to Jon.

She realized then that despite her fear of seeing Jon once more, she _wanted_ to see him more than anything, to see his face, to feel his heartbeat and breath beneath her hand, to see he was as whole as he was when she last saw him. She wanted him to hold her, to let her cry and tell her everything would be alright.

Her fear that he would hate her for bearing his bastard child was still there, still raw and painful, but she would risk the pain to see him. And Jon wasn't a heartless prick either, so he wouldn't just abandon her as soon as he saw her swollen belly. At least if she found him again—if he hated her—he would at least send her away where she and her child could be safe.

The thought brought her little comfort, the idea of being hated by the one she still loved so much, wounding her worse than she ever thought possible.

But...what if...he _wasn't_ there? The ever present fear was finally put into words. Her tears slipped from her eyes now, falling from her eyes and onto her arm. Ghost and Jon were close as close can be, and if she didn't find Jon nearby, what were the chances that...he wasn't dead somewhere?

Maeve sniffled, and frantically brushed her tears away. She rested a hand over her curved belly.

Suddenly, the mule jerked back, shaking itself free of Maeve. Confused and suddenly afraid, she looked around, her hair whipping back and forth against her shoulders as she searched out the foe that frightened the mule.

Movement caught her eye. She gasped, the corners of her mouth turning upwards. She said a silent thanks to the gods, the old gods or the Seven, whichever sent her the blessing before her.

On the side of the road, atop the half rotted log lining the trees, Ghost stood, big and fierce, his red eyes watching her steadily. He suddenly jumped down off the log, causing the mule to fidget more aggressively now. The dire wolf's fur stood out bright and proud in the forest, where the colour of dying leaves and dirt offered Ghost no chance of cover. The great dire wolf stopped in front of her.

Ghost was huge, his head coming up to her chest, his body longer than the donkey's; one of his paws could surely crush her. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, red as his eyes and only the tips of his sharp teeth were visible. Maeve's eyes softened at the faint, pinkish hue of blood around his muzzle. Jon's Ghost had saved her, this great and frightening beast she had never really cared for before, had protected her, and saved her, her baby and her companions from death.

Back in Robb Stark's camp, Ghost had been just a wild beast that Jon could command. She rarely saw him because he was usually out hunting with Grey Wind or prowling about the camp, and keeping order better than a dozen human guards can. She never _loved_ the animal before now.

Maeve gasped softly at seeing a long gash on Ghost's front leg. It was open and red and painful looking. She reached for it, but before her fingers could touch the wound, Ghost suddenly turned and trotted down the road.

"No! Wait!" Maeve called after him. _Don't leave me_, she was about to yell, when the creature stopped and looked back at her. She watched him, afraid of moving, afraid of making him run away again. They watched one another for an unmeasured amount of time, and as Ghost inclined his large head and seemed to nod towards the road, Maeve understood.

Slowly, carefully, she backed up, and climbed onto the seat and took the reins in her trembling hands. She slowly urged the mule forward, exhilarated that she was driving a cart! Ghost waited until they were close, and trotted forward again and waited and moved forward again when they were close.

And so it continued, from that day onward, Ghost led them down the road towards a fate unknown, protecting them and watching over them at night, never coming closer than the trees, although Maeve could sometimes see him inch closer, only to turn and bolt away again.

* * *

><p><em>Two weeks later<em>

"...and the lords of Golden Tooth will surrender to us, _here_," Robb pointed to a location on the map. "And they will give us the men and supplies we need to march onward towards Sarsfield and then Casterly Rock." Robb finished. "Renly Baratheon is dead, and Stannis is defeated for now." He continued. "I've gotten word that Cersei Lannister has ordered all garrisons not at the front to remain at the Red Keep to protect it from siege."

"She'll keep the girls locked away in the deepest pits of that bloody castle, no doubt." Jon grumbled from across from Robb.

"Yes, but we will have Casterly Rock, and all hostages and gold therein." Robb said a little too harshly to his half-brother. Things between the bastard and the King were deteriorating quickly, and Jon counted the days when this war was done so he could go back to the Wall and never bother Robb again. "We also have the West, and dozens of Houses sworn to me and twelve thousand more men." Robb almost smiled at his victory. "I've also heard that Tyrion Lannister has been sent back to the Rock to lord it while his father and brother and sister remain at the Red Keep."

"We lose a full man Lannister and get a half-man Lannister in return." Theon mumbled amusedly.

As they continued to plan, Jon thought once again how quickly this had progressed. After meeting the long lost heir to Castamere, four men of noble Western houses had ridden in, singing praises for Robb and promising their lord father's loyalty. They had been sent as assurance, they said, that their father's meant their promise to Robb, and risked their heirs to gain his trust.

Both Jon and Robb were wary, but when an actual lord came riding alone to their camp, both brothers began to believe the claim that the West wanted Robb to throw the Lannister's from their seat.

Garrett the Steward—or should they call him Lord Garrett Reyne now?—stood beside Jon, the red lion of Castamere stitched on his tunic. Jon wasn't sure what to make of the man. He was quiet, his steely eyes glowering at the Western lords and lordlings who had come to camp, as if blaming them for his Houses' ruin. Other than that, the boy was reserved, with an air of anger that made a lot of men uncomfortable.

"I want Casterly Rock, when this war is done." Garrett said suddenly, his deep voice rumbling through the tent. The eyes of the lords (and Jon) turned to the usually silent man in surprise and question. It was not right for a man to make a demand as large as that.

"You'll have Castamere—" Robb started.

"A pile of burning rubble the last I saw it." Garrett mumbled out, grief evident in the far off look in his eyes. "I have no interest in going back there any time soon. I will rebuild it, but I don't want it for my family's seat." Garrett refused to return to that...place, where almost his entire family was slaughtered, and burned.

Garrett remembered some fond memories of Castamere. He remembered his mother singing him to sleep when he was ill with fever, her voice was soft and awkward, but he had not cared. He remembered his father giving him his first practice sword, and teaching him how to hold it properly, promising to have a real sword crafted with the Red-Lion of the Reyne's on the pommel. He remembered scaring his sisters with frogs and toads and spiders, racing with them from the gardens, through the orchard and to the stream where they fished and swam. He remembered talking to his youngest sister softly and gently when her pet cat died, hoping to stop her tears with sweet notions of the afterlife.

But all those good memories had been burned away by the fire that scorched Castamere into rubble. He could not go back there, not with the ghosts of his family still haunting him.

"What makes you think you can demand such a prize as the Rock?" Lord Ramsey asked.

"Because I am a lord of the west just as they are. They followed my father, and they _will_ follow me." Garrett said, clearly getting fed up with their resistance to his demands. "My entire family was murdered in our rebellion. They see how much we sacrificed to be rid of Lannister's and know that _I am_ the rightful lord of the Rock."

"How can you be a good and just lord, when you hate the lords you rule?" Robb asked sternly.

Garrett looked up at Robb. "I don't hate them; I just don't like them very much." Theon and the Gretjon snorted.

"Even so, the new lord of the Rock will go to someone we _trust_." Theon sneered. "And you haven't been a noble for what, _fourteen_ years? Know your place, boy, and know you have no right to demand _anything_." Theon continued offhandedly, looking at Garrett as if he were an insect under his nail that he'd spared out of the goodness of his heart.

Garrett looked shocked for a second, and then rage fitted across his face and his started toward the Greyjoy, fists raised and ready to get them bloody. Jon and Lord Karstark held the man back, as Robb angrily ordered Theon from the tent and his sight. The Iron born man looked at Robb a moment, almost surprised and hurt, but turned and stormed from the tent.

A moment of tense silence followed the outburst and after a moment, Garrett roughly shook Jon and Lord Karstark off, grumbling under his breath about "_arrogant, stupid fucking islanders_."

"I will consider it." Robb concluded his voice hard and cold as ice. Garrett was content with that and was silent the rest of their meeting which did not last for very long after.

Jon was pleased to be out of the tent, pleased to be away from that bloody tent, where men always wound up at each other's throats for the mildest of slights. Jon clenched his fists. He was _so tired_!

He was tired of this war, of Robb and being so bloody withdrawn from his own _brother_, he was sick of Catelyn and her very obvious hatred of him, he was sick of missing Maeve and hoping against himself that every time they moved camp that he would find her again...he was just tired of everything and angry that he could not sleep.

If he slept, he usually dreamt of Maeve, but that wasn't what troubled him. He dreamt of her all the time, even when she was still there with him, but in his dreams, he not only saw her, he _heard_ her, he _smelt_ her...It was the vividness that frightened him, seeing her so real in front of him, yet unable to touch her or speak to her...it was maddening and gave him mornings that made his longing for her all the worse.

Jon never thought of anything below her breasts. He didn't want to think of her swollen belly and what the hell that meant, and it made him sad to see it really. It was such an achingly lovely sight because she still looked so beautiful and arousing, huge as she was, and he knew that if they could've, he would have married her and had a child with her...but he didn't want to think of what could have been.

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><p>THank you so much for reading!<p>

Thank you **Imperial Dragon**, , **Lobo de Fuego**, My Name is Anon, **19seventythree**, Miss Mac, **Emmalime**, and last but not least, Evelyn, for you wonderful reviews!

66 guys, **66!** *squee!* this is awesome!

again **THE POLL and baby names, and review...if it please my dear readers :)**


	15. Chapter 15: Even Now

**Here we go ladies and gentlemen! *chick in a bikini walks by holding a 'Round 1' sign* haha ;)**

***shocked stuttering* bah-ha-ahh-OMG! I got tw-twelve 12, reviews last chapter! Thank you sooooo much!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 15 <strong>

When they were little, as children do, they solved their differences with their fists, punching, kicking and slapping their way to rolling around the floor, the need to win overriding any thought in their heads. Robb outmatched him in strength and endurance, but Jon was quicker and sleeker, able to get out of whatever hold his brother put him in.

The last time they fought like that was when Jon was five. Robb was just about to concede defeat, when Lady Catelyn wretched Jon away by the arm, all but tearing it from the socket. She dragged him through the halls of Winterfell, ignoring the child's pained whimpers, and stormed to his room, where she abruptly shoved him in, locking the door when she left.

How dare the bastard _touch_ Ned's trueborn son! Family was everything to Catelyn Stark, and Jon was _not_ her family. Never before had she reacted so callously to the child, but there was something inside her that snapped when seeing that _boy_, the child she _hated_ more than anything, rough housing with her son...and _winning too_. Soon after, Lord Eddard come to his room, apologizing to his son and swearing his lady wife would never do anything like this to him again. Lord Stark's angry rant echoed through the halls at Winterfell, Lady Stark's silence was as cold as winter. And she never hurt Jon again...but her silent hatred spoke louder than any physical blow ever could, and it hurt a lot more.

That was the last time Jon struck Robb outside of the practice yard, even when his brother tried to coax him into a fight, Jon always walked away until Robb realized their rough housing days had come to an abrupt end.

But at this moment, after everything they'd endured together, after growing beside each other for so many years, Jon was finding it very, _very_ hard to keep from throttling his brother, especially since Robb held _nothing_ back.

They were in Robb's tent, as usual, flattening out more plans for battle. The others had gone for the night, and only Jon, Robb and Robb's squire remained, the wolves out somewhere unknown.

It was nothing at first, a mild disagreement on what to do with the refugees when Golden Tooth was captured.

Robb wanted to merge the remains of the fallen town with the flourishing city of Golden Tooth, have the homeless small folk find their own way as Robb continued to make war on the Western overlords, and continue on from there, leaving them behind. At this, Jon thought of Allyria, the woman and her children Maeve had cared for with such diligence for months and months. From time to time, Jon would see her, walking with her all, or most of her children clouded around her, a far off, hollow look in her eyes...The woman was in shambles, and he did not think her or her children would last in Golden Tooth. In Winterfell, he knew of a few of families that would take her in, where she and her children would be safe, and where a steady income awaited them. In this Lannister cesspool of arrogance, Jon doubted any would really be so charitable to a broken woman and her litter of young.

Normally, Jon would agree with Robb, because his idea made sense and was the most practical, but this time he couldn't. Maeve had cared deeply for that woman and her offspring, and she would want them to be safe. Jon wanted to keep them, all of the refugees, in Golden Tooth _temporarily_, and then when the battle was won, send them back up North to attend to the fields before the harsh of winter closed in. It was a bit of a lie, winter had already come so there really wasn't much harvest left to tend to...but the people would be safe in the north, and it gave Jon an opportunity to slip back to the Wall.

Jon was walking the thin line between returning to the Wall and remaining here with his brother's army, and believed he would know what was right when he was back in the familiar setting. Although the idea of deserting _again_ made him angry, even if he was not really sworn to Robb.

Then suddenly, this mild argument exploded into a very _loud_ argument, made up of all the silent loathing and quiet blame and guilt and shame that had built between them. Jon's head was buzzing, unsure how this happened and barely knowing who started it, but continuing to scream back at his brother anyway.

"Godsdamn it Jon, I'm fucking sick of this!" Robb shouted, his blue eyes shining with held back frustration that had slowly turned to bitter rage over time. Robb was surprised by his own anger, never knowing that rage and grief could ever exist when physical death was not a factor. He felt like this when Bran was crippled; he felt like this when he got word of his father's execution...now he felt like this as his relationship with his brother died little by little before his eyes. Robb lost his father, his brothers and sisters were miles away, and his mother and half brother were the only parts of him that remained of home and family.

Jon snapped around to look at his brother, fury quickly growing in his eyes. The words they spat at each other flew so fast through the air, that only _moments_ ago, Jon had been about to leave Robb's tent in the same cold silence he had presented to Robb these last long months, when Robb called him out. Oddly, Jon was not all that shocked at his brother's outburst, but he did not know why. He hadn't anticipated a fight but yet expected animosity.

"What?" he snapped. Jon had a very good idea of what Robb was talking about, but the word came out anyway.

"You!" Robb shouted again. He was aware on how stupid and probably childish he was for picking a fight with his brother, but he couldn't help it. Wide eyed, Robb's squire inched towards the tent flap, hoping to leave this quarrel between kings and bastards. "Sulking about and hating me, _all_ because of that one girl! She's been gone near a year, for fucks sake!" He was probably being cruel too, but he was past caring. Neither noticed that the boy had successfully made his escape.

Jon's anger ignited further. "Well it's _your_ fault I'll never see her again! _You_ sent her back to the South!"

"_You_ gave me no choice! She was a _septa_, Jon! What the hell did you _think_ was going to happen when you were caught!"

"You are my brother Robb! I have _never_ betrayed you as you betrayed me in sending Maeve to death." It suddenly struck Jon how..._relieving_ it was to unload his pent up anger on his brother, even though it sliced like a knife to speak of Maeve.

He tried not to, but Jon thought of her all the time. He wondered if she had made it safely to her sept, if it was everything she remembered. When they first met, she would talk about it to him, telling him the halls she had walked every day since she was five, the garden she hoed and weeded, and about the library where she spent countless hours building up her knowledge of the known world. After their first night together in the woods, she rarely spoke of her sept again, the shame of her betrayal worsening if she spoke aloud of her sept.

He wondered if she'd been spared, if her indiscretion was pardoned and if she was permitted to live out her life in peace. He wondered if she was still traveling along the back roads deeper and deeper south, if she was well and if she was alright.

Jon would wonder all the time about the fate of his Maeve, but every night he would come to the same maddening, heartbreaking conclusion: he simply _did not_ know, and he never would. That was the worst of it, knowing the fate of someone you love was going to be forever a mystery and knowing you had a hand in sealing their fate.

"No, Jon, you betrayed _yourself_ when you left the Wall and bedded a _septa_. It's your own fault she's gone!"

Those words hit him hard on the chest, his deepest fear and shame finally put to words. An indescribable wave of hurt washed over him, eating its way from his heart, to the ends of his hair, to his finger tips, to the soles of his feet. The marks on his back burned, the pale, risen skin of his scars feeling as though the wounds were still open and bleeding from the whip.

Jon felt his hand clench, his teeth grit in fury. He felt his arm draw back and suddenly, his fist was smashing against Robb's jaw. Pain burst in his fist, his heart was pounding and his breath was short as though he'd run a mile. Jon could not bring himself to care, blind emotion overtaking all rational thought...after all, one has to be either momentarily mad or sure they were going to win, in order to strike a king.

_He deserves that_, he thought, watching as Robb stumbled back. Jon barely noticed beating, aching pain throbbing thought his knuckles.

Robb quickly regained his balance, and looked to his half-brother. Instinct told him to strike back, but the look in Jon's eyes stopped him for rushing forward and tackling him. Jon looked _wounded_, and angry and even a little fearful and shocked at his own actions. Robb fighting back would probably not end well for either man; it would draw unwelcomed questions and maybe cause a noble lord or two to question Robb's ability to lead a kingdom, since the north's independence was young yet.

Robb rested his hand on the table he'd fallen against, and rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, pulling away to find a small smudge of blood. The drawn out silence between the men was filled with unspoken understanding. Robb did not like to be hit—_at_ _all_—but if it was his brother that hit him, he could let it go. Jon wouldn't hold this against him, and Robb wouldn't hold this against Jon. That is the way it is between brothers, knowing things like these would not matter in the end.

After a few long moments with only their heavy breathing sounding in the tent, Robb shifted and straightened up, trying to look as dignified as possible. The movement allowed Jon to relax a bit.

"And I'll never forgive myself for that." Jon muttered under his breath. Robb heard him, but just barely. He knew that he wasn't speaking of what just happened, but rather what Robb had said. Robb felt horribly guilty for reopening the tender wound but did not show it, and did not apologize. The look in Jon's eye, and the way he'd been so forlorn these last few months since the woman left, told Robb his menial comforts would go unheard.

The look in Robb gave him Jon wish his brother _had_ hit him back. Jon looked up. There it was: _pity_.

Instead of punching Jon back, Robb said, "Feel better?" joking slightly once again rubbing the sore spot on his jaw, still pulsing with pain.

Jon paused. He _did_ feel a bit better now that he'd hit him...there was a certain amount of anger that had released when his fist cracked against Robb's jaw. "Yes," Jon said, looking back to his brother again, his eyes the slightest bit softer. "I don't have the urge to smack you in the face anymore." Both brothers managed an uneasy smile, both unsure. Could this make their already cracked and broken relationship worse, or would it be better? Was Robb angry at him for punching him? Was Jon angry at him for bringing up such a painful topic so coarsely?

"Ah." Robb nodded. He paused, searching for the right words. "Should we get a drink then?" Maybe a few drinks would clear their heads.

"Yes...make you feel better about losing." It felt good to mock his brother, as if their relationship was never broken. Still, Jon was testing the waters for how true that statement was, if it really was as if they never hated each other for a seven month period.

Robb scoffed; still annoyed he couldn't hit Jon back. So they walked to the tavern that Jon had avoided for so long, neither speaking. It was still awkward and silent between them and the anger and feeling of betrayal was still there, but it had eased some, calming from a roaring stormy ocean, to a gentle trickling stream. Neither knew if they would ever be the same.

It irked Jon and Robb both that a single woman could destroy them both so, but what could they do? Jon simply could not turn off his heart and forget about the past, and the injury Robb had inflicted on him, both the physically and emotionally. And Robb simply could not avoid his duties as King. It must have been a cruel twist of fate, where love and duty could not survive alongside each other.

As a familiar tavern wench passed by, glaring at Jon and stalking past him, Jon once again thought of the Wall. He wanted to go back, to forget everything he'd seen and felt since abandoning his post to join Robb. He wanted to forget the good and bad, to sever all ties to his heart like he'd vowed so long ago to do, but knew he _could not_ leave.

It was not the fear of certain death that kept him from riding away in the night to the Wall nor was it the sense of duty and love he felt for his brother... it was more an odd need to stay to the end, to know the outcome. He wanted to help ensure his sisters' safety, but his sisters were to the wind; no one knew where Arya was and Sansa had escaped Kingslanding with that murderous monster Sandor Clegane and gods knew what the freak was doing to her. The news had come only a few days ago. Jon had never seen Catelyn Tully cry so unashamed in front of others at hearing the news, and never had he seen her steal away so quickly before either. Many didn't believe that Sansa had escaped, deeming the whispers to be false, but Robb had ordered men to keep their eyes out for a disfigured man riding with a young maid of fifteen.

He knew for a fact he would never see Maeve again, so there was no point in remaining on the slim chance he'd somehow find her again.

But _something_, nothing or many things, kept him here, kept him from mounting his horse and riding away, but perhaps, when Robb ruled what to do about the refugees, the choice would be made for him.

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><p>There was a world of difference between having someone else drive and driving yourself. It was difficult at first; she had to be careful with her pulls and tugs, the feeling of being in control of the cart making their progress down the old road slow at first, but as they rolled along, her gestures became more smooth and fluent and she found she enjoyed the action...it was quite calming for some bizarre reason.<p>

Tally offered to drive the mule from time to time, and from time to time, Maeve would accept the offer, going to sit in the bed with Dorna, playing simple games with her and reciting simple stories. It was a wonderful thing to travel with the two, although the days were long and dull, bleak with the aftermath of that dark and terrible night...but there was no loneliness, no all consuming despair of solitude.

At first, the dark pain of what had happened followed them every day, a dark cloud blocking the rays of sunshine from their eyes. Dorna, the young child she was, had asked questions of what had happened, but neither woman could bear to answer her, the memory too raw and new. Better she linger in her childish ignorance than know the horrid truth. But when the little girl curled up against her mother at night, gently running her little fingers over the bruises on her arms, Maeve could see the sadness in her innocent eyes, and knew the little girl knew something horrible had happened to her mother. Dorna soon stopped asking.

Without thinking, Maeve's fingers drew up to her neck, quickly finding the burning line where that bastard had cut her. It hurt, it burned to touch, but her fingers continued to trace it.

This journey had left many scars on her, she realized. There was a short, thick one on her arm from when she fell from her horse and realized her baby's existence. There was one faded one on her chest, just below her collar bone from when her elder septa's and septon's used a knife to shred her clothes the day she was ripped away from Jon. Her feet were rough and leathery with the scars of her blisters. There were ugly red lines on her belly where her skin stretched to accommodate the growing child in her womb.

She felt ugly for these imperfections, as stupid and useless as her vanity seemed, she couldn't help but be ashamed of the marks. Yet, on the other hand, they were almost marks of achievement, showing her and the world how far she had come and how she had not been defeated as she once believed she would be. She had come this far for her child's safety, she would go even farther.

But there were also a few scars in her heart, lines and gashes and open wounds that still hurt all the time, but they were like the rest of her marks: slowly, achingly slowly, starting to heal.

Suddenly here was a nudge from inside her, bringing her from her thoughts. Taking one hand from the reigns, Maeve set her hand on her swollen belly, feeling another kick against her palm. As the days rolled along, and her baby moved more and more in her womb, it suddenly occurred to Maeve that motherhood was approaching fast.

"Ah." She whispered as the babe kicked once more. Such a strange feeling: having someone kick you from the _inside_. The thought filled her with a joy she never thought existed. She would get to meet the little person that was kicking her, who she loved despite the situation surrounding its creation...who was made against a tree...

Maeve let out a little nervous giggle and blushed, feeling a gentle wave of hurt slowly rise in her, then slowly dissipate.

_Such a way to create a life_, she thought, still smiling a little. Up against a tree, in the dark, in the cold, with him wounded and both of us caught...yes, not the ideal way for a child to be created, especially since its parents' love was vice...but it didn't matter, not to her, not anymore. She rubbed her belly where her baby had moved.

Maeve felt no shame to bear this child, everyone else may hate her for it, call her a whore, a shameless harlot who betrayed the order that had raised her... and while she wished it were not so, as much as she wished she had not betrayed her sept, her family since she was five, she wouldn't trade her baby for all the acceptance and honor in the world.

The barren, cold fields passed by, farm houses in the distance with tiny specs of families toddling about.

"Think they'll stop us?" Tally asked softly from behind her, motioning to the distant workers. She stroked her daughter's hair as she watched the world pass by.

"I'm not sure...we have nothing really for them to take." Maeve replied. _Except ourselves_, both women thought.

"Why can't we jus stop here? Um hun'gry!" Dorna mumbled out, pouting grumpily. The food was little now, and though they scraped up what they could from the land, the winter cold killed the plants quickly. But Ghost was always there.

The farmers' harvest had probably been seized to feed the Lannister's army, and what they had left for themselves should be used to feed thier family. And farms kept close to the cities so they wouldn't have to ship their product very far, so Golden Tooth must just be up the road a little farther.

Unease nipped at her as she thought of this. _Ghost is here_, she thought, _Ghost will protect us_. The large creature was here somewhere within the trees, somehow invisible and silent, a _true_ ghost. Maeve knew he was there, she could feel those red eyes on her, wise, almost human at times.

At night, when the harsh eye of the Father descended and the gentle eye of the Mother shone up high, Ghost would come closer than he typically did, his spotless white fur glowing in the soft pale light of the moon. He would drop an animal carcass by her feet, a rabbit most often, and trot back to the trees, silent as ever. Those nights, the tree females would feast on roasted rabbit meat.

During the day, Ghost kept to the trees, sometimes showing his pale face, other times remaining invisible.

Tally and Dorna had taken to hiding in the cart bed whenever he appeared, afraid of the large intimidating animal, despite Maeve's assurances that he was tame. Well, "tame" might not be the right word.

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><p>"<em>You can't tame a wild thing," Jon had told her when she asked if the children were safe around the beast. At that moment, the two of them were talking close to the edge of the little shanty village that had been established away from the army camp. Around them, meagre tents stood, drooping slightly from the light snow floating from the sky. A few people walked past them, a few women cooked by little fires, but it was a relatively calm and quiet day in their makeshift village. <em>

_Maybe that's why Jon liked it here; it was a lot more peaceful than in the army's camp, where everything and everyone was always moving and although he liked the hustle and energy of the army awaiting battle, he liked the calm as well, especially after battle. He _very_ much liked Maeve's company too, so perhaps it wasn't just the peaceful setting that brought him back here time and again. _

_Two of Allyria's younger children were currently amusing themselves with Ghost, gently petting his fur and tugging on the downy soft fur of his ears. Tobias lay slumped against Maeve's chest, tired but unwilling to sleep as he stared at the large white dog thing his brother and sister were touching._

"_Then why isn't he _**eating**_ Sybelle's legs or Roderick's arms?" she said loud enough for the two children in question to hear her. Jon and Maeve smiled and watched the scene play out. Eyes widening, the children took a cautious step back and jumped when Ghost laid down, glancing at the young humans boredly. After a moment, they continued their animated jabbering to the dire wolf, examining its enormous paws and daring each other to pull the animals lips back to see his teeth. _

_Jon looked back to his friend, watching her watch the children, admiring her profile without realizing. "He won't." Jon said. Maeve turned back to look at him, blushing at finding he was already looking at her tenderly. To distract herself from those eyes of his, Maeve shifted the baby in her arms, grimacing as her joints began to ache. _

_Jon spoke before realizing what he was saying. "I'll take him." The words were simple, but clumsy on his tongue. The last time he picked up a child that small was when Rickon was a baby, and even then the boy squirmed and whimpered in his arms. _

_To Jon's surprise, Maeve gently took the baby from his comfortable position on her chest, and set him in Jon's awkward hands. He didn't expect her to accept so quickly._

_Tobias blinked. What had happened? Who was holding him? There was the septa who always took care of him, except she wasn't holding him anymore. Instead she was smiling at his confused face, stretching her stiff arms. Tobias stretched his head up and looked up at the man holding him, his pudgy little hands resting on Jon's large fingers. Tobias didn't like this. This wasn't comfortable. He wanted to go back to the septa's soft, warm chest! He didn't like being held so far from Jon's body._

_He started to whimper; sad little sounds and Jon stiffened and fidgeted as he began to panic, worrying he'd done something wrong. _

_Maeve looked from Tobias then back to Jon. "Have you ever held a baby before?"_

"_Not in a long time." He admitted, praying that she would take the baby before he did something wrong and made the child start screaming. This was stupid; he was a _man_ who had fought _battles_, and here he was holding an infant, terrified of the tiny thing. _

_Maeve sighed, her face smiling and her eyes tender. That was sweet. He was able to face the enemy in battle and kill men with his sword, but in the face of this small baby, Jon Snow flinched. That was precious. _

"_Here," she said, holding her arms out and turning the baby and shifting Tobias around so he sat comfortably in Jon's arms. Tobias and Jon both blinked, but Tobias didn't squirm. This was better. _

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><p>"Look!" Tally yelped, breaking Maeve out of her daydream. Maeve followed her terrified gaze and saw, up ahead, at the end of the road, a cluster of soldiers in red capes...<p>

Maeve's heart dropped. Her last encounter with Lannister men had not been pleasant to any extent.

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><p><strong>Hey! I know...bad me, shame on me, taking soooooo long :(<strong>

**Anyhow, thank you to everyone who reviewed! please tell me how this one was!**


	16. Chapter 16: Into the Lion's Den

**Hi! this chapter has been stewing in creative juices for about 5 days now :(**

**Thank you all sooooo much for all your reviews! keep them coming because if I was a cat, and your reviews were cat-nip or those Tepmtations cat treats, I'd be one happy kitty! :)**

**P.S-Maeve is about 8 months pregnant here.**

P.P.S-**-the birth's coming up pretty quick, so if you have any particular preference as to what Jon sires, check out my profile and VOTE!**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 16<span>**

Maeve's hands shook as they approached the barricade of men, but the motion of the cart hid it quite well. Sweat broke out on her brow, cold in the gentle breeze. She gripped the reigns in her hands so tight her knuckles stretched white over the bone, and she could feel her heart race within her breast. Her pale steel eyes could not look away from the red of their cloaks, that ugly, terrible colour...

Flashes swam before her eyes as she stared at that distant crimson fabric. Her heart ached with a deep rooted hatred for that color, coming from somewhere deep within her memory.

_Heavy breathing, fear, screaming...acrid smoke flittered across her nose...the bright glow of fire outside an arched window, smoke dancing thorough the air as the flame raged upwards towards the heavens... three sets of small children's arms holding onto each other, little hands tight around their siblings... __**"Mama! **_**Ma-ma!**_**"**__ the scream of a frightened child echoed through the air...blood, all down small legs, an arrow shaft protruding from a small thigh...she looked up, men crowded around her with horrified, yet unforgiving eyes...an older man stood above her, nothing but cold hate written on his face... __**"Have her taken to a whore house. More mercy than a traitor's spawn deserves."**__ he spat glaring down at her, blood stained across his breast plate, a crimson cape fluttering behind him as flames engulfed her home..._

"Oh gods, oh gods oh gods. No, no, no, no,_ no..." _Maeve heard Tally whimper as she pulled Dorna close to her breast. Maeve blinked, the ugly flashes put to a stop. She ignored the probing questions that built inside her, the anger and hate and fear that gripped her heart as she remembered that cold face. She didn't _want_ to remember, didn't want to think of it...forgetting her family was better than reliving the terror and sadness of losing them.

There were certain things Maeve remembered of her family, some good, many bad. Her mother was just an abstract blur, but she remembered the feeling of love and safety and warmth within her arms. She remembered soft hands picking her up and holding her, rubbing her hair when she cried as soothing words were whispered to her. She could almost see her father's face; at least she _thought_ it was her father she remembered, she could never be sure. She remembered the sun warming her skin as she ran through tall grass, a smile on her face as she raced an unseen opponent.

Maeve remembered the bad as well, _too well_ for her liking, and when she was little she prayed every day and every night for the gods to take away the memory of her life before the sept, so she could sleep without awaking in screams. Dreams filled with terror and hurt tormented her for months, memories of screams and fire and blood. All the while she thought, "Why not kill me too? What was so horrible about me that he saw fit to keep me alive?"

But then slowly, the nightmares faded, the memories were confined to dreams and as she grew older the pain of losing all she once had no longer crippled her. The feeling of loss still weighed heavily on her heart, but knowing that she was destined for a life of virtue and honour, a good life to be lead, comforted her some.

Now as she stared at the men at the end of the road, all those hated memories came back from her long buried past, bringing pain and fear and loathing with it.

They were closer now, close enough to see the sharp angles and curves of the golden lion on their flags.

A branch snapped from somewhere within the trees attracting her gaze toward the line of bare trees where the sound had come. _Ghost!_ She thought with wild relief. _He would protect them! _For a moment, Maeve felt ashamed for putting so much strain on the dire wolf, for depending on him so profusely. Ghost was not a dog, not even an ordinary dire wolf. When he came close to her at night, he looked at her so cleverly she could swear it was a human's red eyes that looked at her. Ghost was _more_ than any pet, almost like a shadow of Jon's, like him in so many ways.

She remembered the curious way the wolf would stare at her for long moments of time, once even daring to nudge her foot with his huge paw. The bump was gentle, and he was so close she could feel his hot breath on her calf. Looking up at her with those human eyes of his, he nudged the same spot again with his cold nose. He backed away again a second later when she raised her hand to inspect the wound that stiff adorned his pale fur.

Maeve touched her belly. These were dangerous times, and she couldn't protect herself now that she was eight months past. Her belly stretched so far out now that she could rarely see her toes and she felt tired all the time now, so how in the world was she supposed to defend herself from a man's aggressions? _When we get to Golden Tooth, Ghost can be free to roam where he chooses, and have no duty to me._ Although she was very much grateful for the dire wolf's protection, it hurt her sometimes to see him, because she would always expect to hear Jon calling for Ghost, only to have that sudden expectation put out as soon as it started.

With sudden panic, Maeve remembered the blood that still stained their dresses from those pricks that had hurt them. The sudden memory of unbearable weight on her back and hot, foul breath on her neck made her shiver. Ghost had killed them, she recalled, he had ripped them apart and now they were rotting somewhere on the side of the road. Her long auburn hair covered most of the blood, but the brown, smelly stain was not invisible and Tally was worse: the blood was on her _front!_ She _couldn't_ let the soldiers see!

"Give me your cloak!" Maeve hissed harshly back at a whimpering Tally. She pulled their reigns and put the mule to a halt, turning her head—and _only_ her head—back to the two in the cart bed, hoping and praying that the men thirty paces ahead wouldn't see the large blood stain running all down her back.

"Why?" Tally croaked back, her voice laded with hopelessness. Maeve was in no position to treat the withered sounding woman with any tenderness at the moment.

"Just give me the blasted thing and put that blanket over you!" she snapped back quietly. At the harshness of her elder girl's voice, Tally did what she was told, but did so rather slowly, her eyes still bleak with fear, devoid of the hope that they could pass the checkpoint without harm done to them. Tally didn't trust Ghost with his large teeth and claws to save them, even though he had last time. To Tally, that beast liked to _eat_ people, it wasn't particular about what kind of people it ate either. They were all prey under that monster's eyes.

As Maeve pulled the dark woollen cloak around her shoulders, thereby hiding the damned stain, she looked back to the men, hoping she could hide her fear and unease well enough now that the evidence was hidden beneath the dark wool around her shoulders. It was then she realized how cold she was her cheeks and nose red with the cold, puffs of dewy breath coming from her mouth as she breathed. She had seen winter as a child, but she had never felt a cold like this.

They were watching her with interest, wondering why a woman, so heavy with child, was driving a mule, not a man or any other companions in sight. And why she had stopped so randomly. There were twelve of them she saw now, shifting closer together and strengthening their human wall. They watched her inquisitively; three or four of them, hungrily.

They drew closer and closer, each step the mule took on the uneven path, rickety and shaky, bringing her closer and closer to what felt like death. Maeve was _tired_ of feeling weak in the face of strangers, if people lived through this world by lying to each other, then so be it, she would lie too if she must. She had to protect her child.

"Halt, woman!" a gaunt faced man without a helm shouted out to her as she came to a stop right before them. Maeve's heart jumped at his suddenly loud voice and she hoped Ghost was somewhere close.

The helmless man stepped forward, looking up at her with accusing eyes. "What's a woman doing driving a cart with no man to keep her safe?" he inquired bluntly. Maeve couldn't hear if there was any malevolence in his words, making her fidget uncomfortably.

It took her a moment to find her voice. "Um, th-the man traveling with us," her shaky voice mumbled out, "he-he died to a fever a while back. He was too old to handle travel." Oh, Gods help us if they walk along this blasted road and find the dead bodies of their men and Tally's father. As she finished her sentence, three of the men stepped forward and inspected the mule, then the cart bed and the two girls huddled together there. She scarcely dared to breathe as they inspected further, piercing her with their quizzical eyes.

After what felt like an endless examination, the three men stepped back and nodded to their leader.

"A woman and child in the back. No supplies or nothin'." He grunt out.

Seeming satisfied, the leader spoke once more. "What is your business in Golden Tooth?"

Maeve froze. What could she say? She herself had no business in Golden Tooth; she was only looking for a safe haven where she could take a job and have her baby in relative peace and freedom. She had no ties to the city, no solid reason for settling there. If she relayed that, who knew how they would react? This was war after all, and men at war were harsher than during peace times. But _Tally_...Tally once told her that she and her family fled the war from Ashemark and that her father had a brother who owned a tavern in Golden Tooth.

Without thinking she launched into another lie, spluttering it out as quickly as possible before she jumbled it up. "Our uncle owns a tavern in the city. My sister, niece and I came from Ashemark and fled when the rebels marched too close."

Her child moved inside her as the leader regarded her for a moment more. He was older than the last Lannister commander she had the displeasure of meeting. His face was thin, the lines around his eyes and mouth ran deep, his hair was thinning and a light grey, showing hints of white. His eyes also did not betray any type of emotion, whereas the younger commander before him held a disturbing glint in his eyes, one that delighted in the terror of others, one who had no control of his disturbing desires. This older man was different: well controlled, practiced in battle and keen at sniffing out deceit.

"What's this uncle's name?" he asked sharply, his mouth hardening into a line. Maeve was acutely aware when he set his hand on the pommel of his long sword.

"Kip," Tally mumbled out from the back, quickly saving Maeve the trouble of making up another lie on the spot. "His name is Kip and he owns the tavern called 'The Creaky Wheel'." Maeve was a bit surprised at the girl's voice, she seemed so meek and small ever since that night, but was thankful she had spoken up.

The commander regarded her once again, eyes flashing down to her belly. Maeve tensed and flinched when he spoke. "You best not be lying to me girl." He warned.

"I wouldn't—" she was cut off by the sharp scraping sound of his sword being unsheathed. Her eyes widened, the reigns falling from her numb hands and reaching for her curved belly on instinct, as if that alone could protect her child.

"I sent a group of my own men down this road over a month ago," Maeve's heart skipped a beat in its frightened haste. "They never reported back. You haven't seen them have you?" The way he spoke, made it sound as if he already knew they were dead and was now just looking for blood and someone to blame. "Where'd ya get that cut on yer neck?" he demanded, gesturing to her neck with his sword. Her hand twitched to touch the offending wound, but did not remove her hands from her round belly. When she didn't speak, he said, "Best not give me reason to give you a matching slice on the other side."

She wanted to cry suddenly. Her eyes glistened but lied anyway, as one last attempt.

Slowly, she spoke out, breaking eye contact with the harsh looking man, meekly mumbling out her response. "We passed them, paid the toll and went on."

"Ser," one of the soldiers spoke. "They're meek little women, this one's fat with a child. Jamos had his fun with them, its plain t'see. Him and his lot are probably taking the farmer's goods like ya told 'im."

The commander seemed to consider that for a moment, and for a moment, Maeve was terribly afraid of what he might decide. Finally, he sighed and said, "There's a fee to enter into the city. The price is ten silvers."

"I—" they had left the coin purse where it had fallen: in the hand of the dead Lannister commander. They had no money...what would they demand in exchange? There was shifting in the back of the cart, the soft clink of coins and then a gentle nudge from Tally as she held out a handful of coins to Maeve. She tore her eyes away from the murderous sword in the man's hand to look down at the two behind her. Tally sat against the cart's wall, Dorna drawn up against her bosom, the sleeping blanket held up around them. But one of Tally's boots was off, and a hopeful spark ignited in her eyes.

Maeve quickly took the handful of coins and held them out, eagerly dumping them in the elder man's rough looking hands.

She held her breath; the world must have slowed down for how could the light remain the same for what felt like hours, as he considered the money in his hand?

Finally, he said, "Get going." And smacked the mule's bottom with the flat of his sword.

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><p>As the last of the farm lands gave way to woodlands, Maeve still sat in a relieved state of shock, clutching the reigns tight. She did not notice the dark, bare trees that enclosed the road, nor did she feel the first snow flake float down from the sky above and land on her hand. Only later, she would see the sheet of fluffy white snow covering the ground, and think, "How did this pass me by?"<p>

"Father told me they'd ask for money," Tally said suddenly from behind her. Maeve turned and looked down at Tally's still bruised face, a sheepish smile on her lips. "Told me t' hide some in my shoes. No one looks in ya shoes."

Maeve smiled at the absurdity of the idea, her mind still swimming, her belly fluttering with light butterflies of unbelieving joy. No one _ever_ thinks to look in their shoes! The thought was so ridiculous she couldn't help but utter an unladylike snort and break down into a fit laughter as they slowly rolled away from the danger behind them. Tally soon joined her, both basking in the moment of warmth they had not had in so long.

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><p>Maeve had expected a short trip since they passed the final checkpoint, but it wasn't until the sun began to fall below the mountains that the cart emerged from the quiet forest and the large stone barrier that surrounded Golden Tooth came into view. Built between two high, rocky peaks, the Golden Tooth fortress seemed impregnable, but everything fell in the end, from the castles built by men, to the mountains carved by the gods.<p>

In the dying light of the day, Maeve could just see the arched doors at the center of the base, where the road disappeared into the city, and could just make out the pair of men keeping watch over the doors. The structure was larger than anything Maeve had ever seen, the wall so tall, the birds must not be able to fly over it. She wondered momentarily if the great Wall in the north was anything like that size. Inadvertently, she remembered the man who abandoned the Wall to fight in his brother's war, and remembered the few times she'd ever asked about his time there.

He avoided answering her questions, using a flat tone in his voice at first to try to avoid the uncomfortable topic. But she didn't let up, her curiosity too great to heed the growing annoyance of her friend. She had read about the Wall, how after the Long Night, Bran the Builder brought up the Wall with the aid of giants and how it stretched for one shore to another. She read of the many castles that once lined across the ice structure, and how only three remained undestroyed. It was a fascinating thing, the Wall, and who better to satisfy her inquisitiveness than someone who'd actually been there?

She got to question three when he'd had enough. As Maeve thought about it she supposed it was tactless to speak so carelessly about such a delicate topic, but at the time she hadn't realized that abandoning the Wall bothered him at all. He broke his vows and he was a bastard, all the logic the sept taught her told her that oaths meant little to Jon Snow.

"Why do you keep asking?" he'd yelled at her, anger and annoyance clear as water on his handsome face.

"Why do _you_ keep avoiding answers?" she had yelled back, her defensive walls coming up in the face of Jon's anger.

"Because it isn't your business to be asking!" It was half true. Jon didn't want to talk about something he still felt so guilty about. Blush flamed across her cheeks and neck, the humiliation of being reprimanded like a child stinging her pride. The argument kept them from talking for days, both still simmering in the aftermath. Jon was the first to seek her out, but _Maeve_ was the one to apologize, admitting she had been terrible.

It was a long time before they ever spoke of it again. Jon brought it up not very long after it began to snow, laying his pride and heart in her hands, trusting her to be gentle with them as he recounted his memories of his abandoned post. He told her about how he'd always dreamt about joining the Watch, ever since he was a boy back in Winterfell, spending his life venturing out beyond the Wall, to the Land of Always Winter keeping wildlings away with his sword, honored and respected, no bastard title holding him back. He told her how different it was, how much of a shock it was finally be there after so many years of dreaming, and then finding his dream a mere shadow of what it once was. He told her about Sam, and how that cowardly fat boy became Jon's closest friend. He told her of Maester Aemon, and of the Lord-commander, and how he'd employed him as a steward to groom him for command one day.

"Those days are gone." He murmured. He spoke with such a nostalgic sadness to his voice, a downcast look to his beautiful brown eyes that Maeve couldn't stop herself when her hand reached out to rest on his cheek. Quickly, they both froze, both shocked by her forward advance. They marvelled for a moment at the warmth of the other's skin, before she pulled away.

Maeve sighed. Jon had been coming up in her thoughts a lot as of late. She looked down at the swell of her belly. Perhaps it was because she was going to meet a part of him very soon that spurred on memories of him. She looked back up at the stone wall.

What lay beyond _that_ wall? What would happen to Ghost when they reached it? Surely the dire wolf could not go about prowling in the city...he'd cause a panic and people would hunt him down until he was dead. She wouldn't be able to hide him either; wild things could not be kept caged. The realization stung to know that she would have to leave Ghost behind. The creature that helped her and saved her life would not be able to stay by her side. _He's better out here,_ Maeve thought, trying to bring herself some comfort. _And why would he even want to stay with me anyway? Out there he can be free, within those walls, only death and imprisonment are offered for him. _

Looking back to the retreating woods behind her Maeve whispered a silent goodbye to Ghost, praying that he would return to his master's side where he belonged. For a moment, Maeve was jealous of the animal, wanting to be him so badly it hurt. Without speaking, the two soldiers posted at the gates opened the wooden doors. The faint smell of roasting meat and garlic filled her nose, making her belly groan loudly and her mouth fill with water. She had forgotten how hungry she was, neither Tally, nor Dorna nor her, eating since daybreak the morning before.

Cracking the reigns down, hard in her haste to find that delicious aroma, Maeve drove the cart into the city of Golden Tooth, feeling a prickle of fear as the doors slammed shut behind her.

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><p>Ghost watched from afar, whimpering as the little lioness entered the lion's den, where danger lurked in every shadow. Her claws were as long as theirs, her teeth as sharp, but those lions were much different from her. She was one, (with a cub to protect), and they were many. Now she and her cub were away from him, in a place where he could not protect her.<p>

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><p><span>Ah, Ghost, so like Jon.<span>

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**also, I've decided to be curel, and not update till I get to 100 reviews! ;)**


	17. Chapter 17: The Creaky Wheel

**Chapter 17**

They would march out soon, Jon could feel it. The air hung heavy with the excitement that came before combat, the sound of sharpening steel sounded from nearly every crevice of the army encampment, the loud, deep _clinks_ of hammers on steel rang almost daily. However, it was a much different sight towards the north end of the site, where the refugees had settled themselves. While determination and rage could be seen in nearly every soldier, fatigue and fear was heavy in the presence of the broken down men, women and children, the true victims of the war of the Kings.

The contrast between the two halves of the same horde was shocking, how an army set out for conquering, could live alongside a traveling village. Really, they weren't living beside each other, they were tolerating each other as best they could, accepting that that what one needed, the other had. The refugees needed protection, and soldiers needed comfort. Men that sought out nightly company would usually find themselves in the refugee camp attached to their war host. Some women did as the men wanted, albeit out of a sense of obligation more than desire, but there have been whispers about a man or two carrying an unwilling woman away into the night for a few hours. Along with that, soldiers frequently clashed with the civilians, some feeling that the southern born refugees had no business there with them, but nothing ever became of these ill ideas, because what the homeless women offered, and the support the homeless men provided, was far stronger than any embittered soldier's vexation.

In the stories and songs that people sang of war, none ever said how afraid you got, wondering before every battle if this was the one that would bring your death. None ever spoke of its ugliness, the amputation, the cauterizing, the infections.

Sansa had loved those songs and stories, Jon remembered the dreamy eyed thirteen year old he had grown up with, the ones about knights and ladies, love, glory and honor...he hoped that she still retained that innocent sweetness about her, even if it had been annoying before, he hoped Arya was still as wild as she was when they parted ways, he hoped Maeve...

Jon froze. He bit his lip, eyes narrowing and focusing on the dirty snow at his feet. He...he hoped Maeve was happy and safe, even if he knew it was unlikely. He hoped she still read about everything from the fabled beasts behind the Wall, to the dragons the Targaryen's once rode. That had been her favorite thing to read of, mysterious creatures that man once had the privilege to behold, but had long since vanished only to be seen in the dusty pages of old books. He hoped she still had that glare of hers, wondered if she still played with the sleeve of her dress, if she still sneered in that childish way when someone spoke down to her or teased her, if she still admonished others in that proud way of hers for disrespecting the Seven, a trait he both loved and hated. When you loved someone, you notice little things, a slight hop to their step, a sigh, a smile, and when they were gone, the littlest facts are somehow the ones you think of most.

Jon was pulled out of his thoughts as someone's shoulder roughly knocked into his. He was about to call out in annoyance at the one who'd knocked into him, but whoever it was, was already lost among the horde.

The unbidden forlorn thoughts of his long gone lover were pushed back as he remembered the plans for the weeks to come, and the unfortunate events that were unintentionally tethered to Robb's plans.

If they successfully took the west, the Lannister's hold on the throne would weaken significantly, especially if they tried to reclaim it, then they could get the girls back, or so Robb told his mother.

If all went _well_, the people of the west would see the Lannister's corruption and tyranny, and elect a new Warden of the West, (Garrett Reyne still had his eye on that seat), who would join Robb's Rebellion and march his men on to the Red Keep. But nearly half of the western army was stationed at the Red Keep to protect the Lannister's within, and the other half was either out somewhere in the field or guarding the seat of Casterly Rock. To march men against their own brothers was a mistake that rebels always seemed to make during war. But if the Red Keep was to be taken, and if the western lords were to be spared by Stannis' proclivity to assert his power as rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, they _had_ to march against the Red Keep, as a show of loyalty to Robb...or rather Stannis.

Jon hated the politics he found himself ensnared with; the bureaucracy the King dealt with everyday was filled with loop holes, lies, mistrust and so many twists and turns to the point where you couldn't tell your ass from a hole in the ground. When he was a boy, he always thought wars were plain, good versus evil, black and white...in real life, it was not nearly so simple.

News from King's Landing had arrived the week before from one of Robb's spies. Joffrey, the little prick, was dead. May the Seven be praised...for once. Some say he choked at his own wedding feast, and others claim he was poisoned by his wife's, Margaery Tyrell, family. The Queen Regent apparently, flew into a mad rage and had the newly wedded and widowed Tyrell girl arrested right there in front of her own family while her son lay dead on the floor. Robb intended to use this deadly slight against the Tyrell's to an end, but they had betrayed the Baratheon's claim easily enough, and Stannis was prickly with his honor, so it would be difficult using the Tyrell's rage to their advantage.

Other than Joffrey's _long_ overdue demise the month before, and Margaery's imprisonment, no other news came. Robb's anxiety grew quickly, with no information on their sisters' wellbeing, the girls' safety could go one way or the other, either they were alive and hidden, or dead and hidden. Jon could tell his brother was inclined to believe the latter as he hated the Lannister's and doubted they had any tact when it came to the game of war, especially since that madwoman Cersei ruled over the throne and her eight year old son, who was now king.

With each passing day Jon grew more and more aware of Ghost's absence. The dire wolf had yet to be seen in weeks, and though Jon knew in his soul that Ghost would never leave him forever without Jon knowing, his absence made Jon very sad. Jon felt no need to look for him, Ghost was smart and could take care of himself, but he did miss his companion terribly.

He missed them both, Maeve and Ghost, more than he missed his father, to his utter shock. He hated to admit it; feeling as though he were betraying his father's memory over a 'mistake' and a 'pet', but Jon's parting with Ned Stark had not been laced with acrid sorrow. It had been one of hope, and bitter sweetness, the only anger he felt at that parting was that Jon would now never know about his mother. They both said they would meet again, and Jon held out persistent, yet fragile hope that they would one day see each other in the afterlife, if it existed. Maeve's leaving was built on guilt and shame, and Ghost's disappearance was sudden and unexpected.

How many times had he replayed that last day he had seen her? How many times had he cursed himself, whether for not hearing Theon's approach, or for simply being drawn to her like a moth to an open flame? Too often to count.

Ghost had been the one to lessen the pain the most, he was the one Jon trusted above all others. Robb had lost much of his faith when he stood by and watched while Maeve was humiliated and lead away on a horse. Jon had not witnessed the event himself, but the men had so effortlessly recounted the tale for days to after, and Jon caught snippets from his cot as his bleeding back healed. And though each one said something slightly different, two similarities remained the same; one, Maeve's dress was ripped to shreds and was dragged from the privacy of the tent to the horse a hundred feet away. And two, Robb had done nothing to spare her from such humiliation. Even if she were not Jon's lover, and had not brought shame to him, Robb should have protected a helpless woman. _Should have_, but didn't.

Weary, Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging his sore eyes. Ghost was not there, so he must seek refuge elsewhere. Jon started towards the tavern, knowing a cup or two of wine could stave off the dreams.

Dreams brought such a sweet feeling and he loathed when the sun woke him. Maeve was small, she was dirty, her hair was no longer lustrous and there were subtle lines around her eyes now, as though she had aged five years in mere months. But, she was still Maeve, no matter how she had changed. But why did his memory of her change? And why was always at a distance when he dreamt of her? This irked him as well as confused him.

Before in the realm of dreams, he had been free to touch her freely, smile and have her smile back like she did in real life, hear the softness of her voice...but recently, all that had gone, replaced with strange dreams that did not have _any_ dreamlike quality about them. These odd "dreams" felt more like a memory when he awoke. He felt the trees and forest around him, felt his breath, heard the small sounds the animals made, and watched Maeve from afar, waddle around her simple camp, tending to the two others she was with, holding that big belly of hers beneath her small hands.

Jon downed the last mouthful of the bitter wine he'd bought. They weren't real though, but despite this, he couldn't stop thinking of her pregnant belly. Oft times he would wonder about it, thinking of the dreams he had never let himself have, and wonder what it would have been like if Maeve was his wife, and they truly had a child.

Holding out his cup to a passing wench, Jon intended to drown the sad thoughts with more wine.

That night, Jon dreamt of a wall, watching a cart disappear behind it, feeling his heart sink as though he had lost a part of him once again. After that night, the strange, lifelike dreams of Maeve and her pregnant belly gave way to his old dreams, where they were happy, and together.

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><p>"Tally, sweet-love," a plump woman said with a big smile on her round, red face. "So good to see you again, dear. Last I saw ya, ya were six, with no baby!" the large woman pulled Tally against her plush breasts, tears of joy evident in Tally's closed eyes. "Now look a ya, a woman and a mother." The woman murmured nostalgically.<p>

Maeve shifted awkwardly, on the seat of the cart, fidgeting with the reigns of the donkey. Tally had told her where to go when they entered the city, and suddenly leapt from the cart bed like a startled doe when she spotted a certain pub, with a wheel hanging over the front doors. Now as Tally's daughter stirred in the back without her mother's warm arms around her, Maeve felt out of place for the first time in a long time.

She would not fit into this little family, and now wondered if they would send her away like so many had before. Maeve bit her lip and looked away.

"Where's your father, the old cretin?" asked the plump woman jovially, standing back at arm's length from her niece.

Tally looked down, tears in her eyes. The elder woman noticed and felt a pang of sympathy in her heart for the young girl to lose her only close kin next to her daughter. Her husband, Tally's uncle Kip, had died the year past, leaving the tavern to her.

"How?" she finally asked.

"M-m-men, they s-stopped us n' they...I said _no_—and father—I didn't want to aunty Gin, I swear it! I begged 'im stop, but what if that's why they—" a strangled sob cut Tally's cries short. Aunty Gin pulled the sobbing girl against her warm, comforting chest again, knowing all too well the pains she had suffered.

Drowsily, Dorna sat up and searched for her mother, and at not finding her in the cart with her, began to panic. "Mama? Mama!" she cried, her little head whipping back and forth in search of her mother, her eyes wide with frantic fear.

Maeve's gaze snapped back to the panicked four-year-old, and on instinct she twisted back and rested a hand on Dorna's back, leaning down over the back of the seat to be closer to the child. Dorna whipped around, hoping to see her mother's familiar face, but only finding Maeve. But to her, Maeve could be a passage to her mother.

"Mama?" the child exclaimed in a high squeak, her wide blue eyes glistening with tears.

Maeve gave the child's back a little rub. "Hush, little. You're mothers over there, it's alright. She's just there." Maeve was absurdly annoyed that Tally had just _left_ the child there without warning the little girl that she would be gone, but looking back to the small scene in front of the _Creaky Wheel's_ front doors, Maeve understood Tally's haste to break down in familiar arms. She understood, but she didn't like nor appreciate it. Anger came quick to her these days, as well as sudden crying fits and many emotions in between; the states of calm were less and less, and Maeve thought she was going mad, but Tally assured her it was because of her baby, and was entirely natural.

Aunty Gin turned her sharp, inquisitive eyes to the two strangers. For a moment, she thought they were mother and child just passing by, but then she saw the little girl's hair, the same shade of orange as Tally's. So that was her niece's baby, but who was this other woman? The plump woman's eyes hardened. Aunty Gin was weary around strays; she had seen what they did in desperation and fear.

Tally pulled away, her wet face turning to the two other girls. "That's Maeve and my daughter Dorna." Tally explained. "Maeve traveled with us on the road, and helped us when—" she broke off, not daring to speak of that horrid night.

Aunty Gin still watched Maeve with apprehension. The fact that the girl was a woman did nothing to soothe her concern. Despite what the world may think, women could be just as callous as men; even the pregnant ones, she thought looking down at the stranger's swollen belly.

Maeve bit her lip. The elder woman didn't seem to want her to stay. Where would she go now? Maeve wanted to cry suddenly, to have come this far only be homeless once more, with a baby to boot.

Sensing her aunt's unwillingness, Tally spoke up. "Aunty," she spoke softly. "She's a good woman, she can help around the tavern too, maybe take care o' the lil ones. She's gonna have a baby too soon."

Aunty Gin did not waver. "Where was she when ya pop died?" it was conceivable that this woman was a threat, she could have been involved with whatever had killed Tally's father. In these days anything was possible when lies so easily dripped from people's tongues.

Tally looked away, bile rising in her throat and a hot, shamed flush spread across her face and arms at remembering that terrible night. When her aunt prodded again she kept silent, her eyes hollow as she tried to push away the memories.

Minutes ticked by and Maeve grew more and more uneasy, and found it increasingly difficult to keep young Dorna from sprinting away from her to her mother. She could hear them whispering, and saw the plump woman glance to her every so often. Fear ate at her as she sat there in the driver's seat, facing the tavern that she hoped to be her new home. Wandering women and men toiled around her in the evening air, the city not sleeping even though the sun had set. The lit torches and still noisy air shocked Maeve at first, as she had never been in a city.

She never saw much of the town where she grew up, from her home sept's windows, but what she had seen was that everyone went to sleep when the sun did. In Robb Stark's gods forsaken camp men did whatever they wished at night, sleeping or otherwise. Looking around now at the people up from their beds, Maeve realized this city was no different from Robb Stark's camp, only there were no tents.

After so long of being alone, and then being in the company of only two other people, Maeve found herself a bit overwhelmed.

"Please Aunty, please let her stay." Tally whispered to Aunty Gin.

"If that girl wants to earn her stay here, she can come over and do it _herself_." Aunty Gin grumbled before she turned away and stalked back into the tavern, which only just now was starting to attract in customers. Maeve blinked as she heard the woman's reply. She thought she had been polite to stay back away from their reunion, not realizing she had been rude in letting Tally plead for her alone.

Maeve stepped down from the cart as Tally returned back to them. The borrowed scratchy cloak was still hung around her shoulders, fluttering softly in the wind. As soon as Maeve released Dorna's arm, she sprung from the cart and charged at her mother.

Tally took hold of the fidgety mule's bridle and led him away towards the stables at the back of the tavern, Dorna clinging tightly to her side. When she spoke she was quiet and grave. "Just be helpful, don't put ya nose where it don't belong, and if you want extra coin, make sure he isn't someone else's regular first. No one likes competition." Maeve swallowed. She expected to have to pay rent and hoped that she could make enough without having to resort to what Tally suggested.

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><p><strong>Sweet lord, I know, long time :( Summer is slipping fast and I've been traveling and plain writers block is to blame...So sorry my loves <strong>

**Anyway, please review, questions, thoughts, comments, suggestions, I want em all!**

**Thank everyone for getting us to 103! whoo! Party! Anarchy! Take your pants off and dance pantsless! *does so* :D**


	18. Chapter 18: Innocent

This chapter was slightly inspired by Taylor Swifts "Innocent" :)

please enjoy and REVIEW!

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>**8**

There were eight others living in the tavern besides Aunty Gin, either above in the loft above the tavern, or in the eaves above the stable. Aunty Gin lived down stairs, in the tavern just in the back in a closed off area where prying eyes could not peek in. Three women lived in the loft above the tavern, all of them serving wenches or part-time kitchen cooks. What they did in the allies with men was of their own business, so long as they paid their rent and caused no trouble. Two small children belonged to two of the three women, a boy and a girl who were playing in the stables. They took care of small errands and chores, becoming cupbearers to help their mothers at night. The three men had yet to be seen, but they apparently lived in the small loft above the stables: one a stable hand, a cook and his helper.

Entering the tavern with Tally's bag of belongings in her hand, Maeve observed her surroundings with interest. Long tables and benches littered the open area, and to the left of her there was a bar where large kegs of mead, beer and wine sat. Torches dotted the walls, burning and bringing light to the darkness. The tavern was barren, but the doors were open and soon the room would be bursting with life.

She had never been in a tavern before and a small thrill went up her spine. In her old life, a septa would not ever be found in a place where decadence had such potential to thrive. Suddenly her heart sunk. She had thought the shame and regret had faded from her heart, but it hadn't. Perhaps it never would. The thought made her sad, yet almost at peace. She had betrayed the Seven and the only family she remembered, she would be worried if she wasn't ashamed.

Maeve rubbed her belly as she and Tally climbed the steep steps, her child twisting and kicking relentlessly inside her, responding to her nervousness. Ahead of the two women, Dorna flounced happily ahead with Aunty Gin, jabbering away as though she had no memory of the hardship the three of them had walked through. Maeve envied her for that.

When they reached the top, they entered an open space with three beds pressed against the walls. It was rather plain for three women and two children living there, a burning lamp on a table provided light. A small chair sat by the window, a chest where clothes were stored was pressed against the foot of one of the beds, a small doll dressed in modified rags laid on one bed alongside some needlework, but other than that the room was devoid of any decoration.

Standing about the simple room were three women, varying in age and appearance. One was tall and around thirty, with thin black hair. The next was of similar height with Maeve, who had two chins and blonde hair pulled up behind her head. She looked to be about forty. The last was a petite woman with brown locks of hair falling around her face, full lips and large blue eyes adding to the comeliness of her face. Of the three, she was the youngest and the most beautiful. Maeve was suddenly very self-conscious of her dirty state, the oiliness of her hair, her large protruding belly and the stench she _must_ have emitted.

"You'll sleep here, and start work once you've bathed." Aunty Gin grunted. She'd let the pregnant girl stay so long as she was not deadweight, did not bring trouble and kept whatever spawn she birthed in line. She and her husband had never been so blessed to have children of their own, it had simply never happened for them. Maybe it would be nice to have a little baby around the house...

When Aunty Gin left to tend to the slowly trickling in patrons, the three women began to move about the room quickly, speaking to one another in soft voices. Maeve observed the women with a piqued curiosity that bordered on the line of fear. After being virtually alone for so long, it was hard to accept new company when her last encounter with strangers had been so terrible. And these women seemed as distant and secretive, who stole short glances at them and spoke in whispers so they would not hear. But perhaps it was for their children they kept a distance. Maeve touched the roundness of her midsection once again. She thought she could understand that.

The black haired woman moved the chair from the window while the young and pretty one ran to fetch fresh linens for them to sleep on. The large blonde meanwhile moved to the chest at the end of the farthest bed and pulled out three dresses.

They looked nice enough, albeit, a tad uneasy, but they were so kind as to lend Maeve a new dress that better fit her and a comb for after her bath. The kindness of their actions warmed her heart some, feeling as though for the first time in _so long_, she could relax and let someone else worry over trivial matters. At least just for the moment. No peace lasted very long. But she would be glad to be rid of this dress. It was uncomfortably tight, and held such terrible memories within the stitches of the fabric. The healing slice on her neck would remain, and she couldn't help that, but dresses could easily be removed and replaced.

Moments fell away quickly and soon Tally, Dorna and Maeve were following the fat blonde woman out to the stables. She called herself Baba. The woman's voice was tinted with something foreign, and Maeve reached deep within her memory to recognize it. Once as a child, she had gone to the market for some meat and the butcher had that accent. He said he was a Lorathi slave, _former_ slave he said. "I'm free, free, free," he said, "Can't tell me none different no more." She wanted to ask about her home in Lorath, but she could be easily shunned and thrown out of this new home, so she kept her questions to herself.

Entering the stable, they were greeted with giggles from children and the sound of small feet running over creaky floor boards. To the left was a set of pens housing a milk cow, a pig and a mule, and just at the end of the line there was a ladder leading up to the loft. To the right there was a series of tools to care for the animals hanging on various hooks, a bale of feed and water, a set brazier that kept the drafty stable warm, and a wooden tub.

The rasp of old floor boards sounded upwards, drawing her eyes away from the layout of the stable. Two small faces blinked down at her curiously from the lofts edge, one head of black hair and one head of blonde hair.

Maeve opened her mouth and raised her hand a little to utter a startled greeting, but Baba had heard them too. "Get out of here, both of you!" She called up to them, her accent apparent with her raised voice. The children jumped and scampered down the ladder. "Get to work and tell them up there to get down here too; else I hit them with that axe!" The children ran out of the stables, Maeve only just catching a glimpse of them.

A humourless chuckle sounded, and a man appeared, leaning down over the edge and looking down at the women, a scowl on his whiskered face. He was an older man, nearing forty with no hair on the crown of his head.

"Don't threaten me, woman," he warned, glowering at Baba. Maeve's stomach tightened, remembering rough hands, hot reeking breath on her neck, and fear so naked the gods would have flinched.

"I'll say what I want, Otis, now off to the kitchen!" she scolded. The balding man rolled his eyes and grumbled all the way down the ladder steps and stalked off to the tavern without another word. "You too Pox!" Baba shouted suddenly, making the three of them jump.

A scoff was heard, a brief rustling sound, and the creaking of the floor boards as the unseen man above walked across them. This man was much younger than the first, about twenty, with thin blonde hair, a pointy nose, crooked teeth and pox scarred skin. He looked them over once, and rolled his eyes. "Of course they'd have whelps," he muttered. Maeve bit her lip, feeling both annoyed by the boy's effrontery and naked at his judgement. For a brief moment she wondered why such a young and able young man wouldn't be fighting the war, but as he walked away, she saw his bad limp.

"You're tired, I can tell," Baba said as the last of the strangers slipped away, her accent curling around the words. "I'll draw the water." And so she did, taking a bucket and making trip after trip to the well and back, patiently heating the water over the stove and pouring it into the tub. Finally the painstaking task was done and Maeve was thankful she was not charged with carrying out the task for once.

Dorna was kept occupied as the task was done, scampering over to the back of the stables to coo at the grey speckled bitch feeding her pups. Tally pulled Dorna away from the balls of fur and both stripped down to their dirty grey under dresses. Tally groaned as they sunk into the steaming water. Beside the tub was a small stool with a set of sheets on it to dry them after their bath. Maeve sat there, the scratchy material on her lap and blankly watched the mother and child's fears melt away and play together in the water, looking more like sisters than ever.

Maeve felt the familiar nudge in her womb and put her hand over the spot where she'd felt it out of habit. She liked touching her belly even though she felt fat with its largeness. She looked down and sighed, wondering if she would get along with her own child so easily.

So much ill feeling centered on this child's creation and its growth, and in her heart she feared that when the time came for it to be born, she would resent it, blame some innocent little thing for her hurts and trials. She wanted to cry at thinking it. She loved it now, didn't that count for something!? She had not met the child, yet knew it, had not held it, but carried it and felt it move, she had not seen it, yet knew it to be beautiful. She loved this child, wanted it, had hopes and dreams for it. She would never see Jon again, but she would have a part of him.

Her heart ached with pent up longing and grief as she thought of her lost lover. He had awoken love in her heart, and though she thought the childish infatuation would go as swiftly as it came, her heart remained with Jon's. Perhaps it was because she carried his child, or perhaps she was still in love with his memory, she knew not, but hoped she would forget soon. It would grieve her to forget, how he'd smelled, his warm skin against hers, they way they'd been together at first, so cautious and then so eager. She missed how he smiled at her, talked with her, how when she was upset and near crying, how he would just..._hold_ her, a simple gesture that warmed her heart even now. Jon wouldn't pull away to kiss her, he wouldn't look at her face, not mutter empty comforts like she was a child, not judge her. He would just wrap her up in his arms and hold her tight, and let her know without words that she _mattered_.

Dorna suddenly splashed her hands in the water, sending water flying everywhere, but none minded when seeing the worriless smile on the child's face. Maeve smiled to herself. Women said that children brought the greatest joy one could ever hope to know, but they could also bring the greatest pain. A cold chill swept through her; that was her greatest fear: the birthing bed.

It was not the pain so much as the outcome of birth that made her stomach clench. It was the fact that either she or her baby could easily die; both of them, one of them, either way, bringing forth a new life sometimes called for death. She wondered masochistically which would be worse, her dying leaving her child an orphan in a cruel world, or her...her...child dying and taking a part of her with it to the afterlife.

A hard kick landed in her side and she groaned at the strength of it, and then let out a brief chuckle. It was there now, strong and safe and growing stronger every day.

Finally, Tally and Dorna stood from the tub and wrapped themselves up in the linens. It was Maeve's turn. Without hesitance or thought the eagerly unfastened the cloak around her shoulders, ignoring the shocked gasp from Baba at seeing the dried blood on her back, and let it and her dress fall to the floor. She wondered for a moment if she should take the soiled under dress off, but thought better of it and stepped into the used, lukewarm bath water.

She enjoyed the warmth for a moment, and then began to scrub, a little sad that the water was not so pure and fresh as a stream, but happy it was warm. All too soon, the water turned cold and she stepped out, accepting the towel from Baba. For the first time in months she tugged through her hair with the wooden comb and then slipped on the new dress. Thankfully it was one of Baba's and twice her size so it fit quite well in the front. It was a plain dress, grey wool, crude stitching, but it _fit_ and it was _clean_...it was more than she could have ever hoped.

The three of them and Baba walked to the tavern, Maeve's hair dripping down her back. They walked towards the open door at the back of the tavern, the door leading to the kitchen. Warmth caressed Maeve's cold skin and the delicious smell of roasting spiced meat greeted her nose and made her mouth water. A second set of open doors in the kitchen led to the main floor of the tavern, where she could already hear laughter from drunken patrons.

In the kitchen, chopping haphazardly at a carrot near the fire was the balding man who'd grumbled at Baba earlier, and standing beside the oven pulling out some steaming meat pies, was Auntie Gin, whose face hardened ever so slightly at seeing them. She looked down at the cooling pies and without looking back up at them, she began to knead the left over dough on the counter.

Still focusing on her work bid Tally to go upstairs and lay her daughter down for some much needed sleep, and then come down to work. Baba left to tend to the patrons, and left Maeve alone with Aunty Gin, and the scowling cook who had yet remained silent.

Auntie Gin looked up from the dough, and the older woman's unwavering gaze made her cringe. She recognized that stare; it was one that elders used on the young. "You will earn your keep here, earn the food in your belly, the bed you sleep in and the roof above you. You don't work, you don't eat, you don't pay rent, you don't live here. When your bastard's birthed, you pay for two." She stated solidly, her gaze never wavering. "Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." Maeve managed although she was ready to say about anything to get the woman to stop looking at her like she was.

"Good. Now start serving those rowdy bastards out there and I'll save you and Tal a plate for later."

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><p><strong>Greetings my loves :) I really do hope this chapter was to your satisfaction...I am so sorry there wasn't much happening, I really wanted to add more, but if I did, there would be too much to process and it'd be like 4,000+ more words...but I swear, I SWEAR, crap will get real next chapter!<strong>

So in saying that, please if you haven't voted yet, **VOTE ON MY POLL :D**

**Thank you to:**

**Emmalime: **Oh thank you very very much you fabulous reader :D I promise the reunion will come soon!

**xbellaboox: **Thank you!

**Lobo de Fuego: **thank you for being reviewer 106! have no fear, I have plans *strokes fluffy kitty of ominous things to come* Mwahahahahahaaaa!**  
><strong>

**MissMac: **Hello Moonpie, thank you for dancing pantsless! Thanks for reviewing and I do hope this one wasn't sucky

**19seventythree: **:D Sorry we couldn't get much tavern experience in this one :( But I swear next one'll be full of tavern related drama!

**Carlypso: **Oh thank you so much! I love your stories! Hope u like this chapter! ;D


	19. Chapter 19: Between Heaven and Hell

Hi! new chapter so happy. I meant to have more here, but it was running a little long so, the next chapter is all planned out hazzah!

Big shout out to everyone who has followed this story from the start and who have patiently stuck by it ALL this time ;D

This chapter, was inspired by a number of songs, such as Cold by Aqualung and Lucy Schwartz, Fire and Blood from the Game of Thrones season 1 soundtrack and many others

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><p><strong>Chapter 19 <strong>

The work was easy: pour a little wine and beer here and there, collect payment, cut the customers pieces of the roasted pig and repeat. Of course weaving her way through the sea of half drunk raucous men made her job quite a bit more dreadful.

When she first entered the tavern through the kitchen doors with a pitcher of wine in hand she'd been shy, frozen for a second at loss of what to do. She felt like an outsider among these merry men and sleek mink-line women who knew how to talk and twist their words to earn bigger tips, and deal with the drunkards who liked to grab and pinch. She felt a child, pathetically innocent and naive. She hated it. There was a certain titillating feeling of doing something that was once forbidden to her (again, like a child), something she could not put to name, but her worries overrode such feelings of appeal.

Suddenly there was a shout for more wine, and after a brief moment of hesitation, she stepped forward, gently weaving through bodies, feeling as utterly meek as a mouse.

Wine made tongues loose and fears fall away like leaves, she found out quickly. More than once she'd seen Baba pulled onto someone's lap. Constantly men bombarded the pretty tavern girl with crass comments and invitations. Maeve was no exception to their crude remarks.

"Oi! Girl! Over here and come sssit on me lap! I don care that yer fat!" called the old man that she had just served, from behind her.

"From behind ya look likes a normal sized lass! Give us a kiss and I'll give ya a copper penny!" She ignored his slurred words and went on. He'd probably forget her as soon as he realized she'd refilled his cup. Sweat wetted the back of her neck from the heat of the pub and the constant blush that reddened her cheeks throughout the night. She hadn't expected their words to have such an effect on her still. Hadn't she grown thicker skin to shield her from embarrassing or hurtful words? They weren't the scalding wounds she remembered from before, but they still made her cringe and blush like a maid.

"More wine!" a deep voice called from the left of her. She kept her eyes away from the man's face as she scurried over to the table where he sat, a pitcher of wine in her hand. His large hand rested on the table, and on his index finger was a beautiful golden ring with a deep red ruby at the center. Her heart thundered in her chest. His hands were pale and smooth and the hair on his knuckles was a fine gold.

She didn't look up to meet the stranger's eyes. It was just easier not giving them a reason to talk. Men liked to talk when they're happy and seeing pretty faces made them happy. So Maeve simply poured the half empty carafe, filled his cup again with the dark bitter liquid and turned to move away, but suddenly his hand caught her wrist, the thick band of his ring digging into her skin.

A startled gasp came from her as he pulled her close, forcing her to look at his face, glassy blue eyes watching her quizzically. He was young enough, not a boy but not an old man either. Faint lines around his eyes told his true age. His hair was the colour of dark honey in the dim light, a thin moustache lining his upper lip, fine angular features sculpting the fine face staring back at her.

"If I were a lesser man I'd think I'd seen a ghost." He muttered to himself, his deep voice slurred ever so slightly. Maeve could say nothing, still too stunned by his actions. The men had grabbed for her before, though not as vigorously as the other girls, and she had quickly gotten away from their loose hold quick enough. Theirs had been a mischievous gesture that held no meaning in their drunken state. But this man, there was no good-humoured feeling in his hands or in his eyes, and she could tell he had a reason to grabbing her besides the wine swimming through his veins.

"I'm notta lesser man though. I'mma Lannister and _Lannister's don't act like fools._" He grumbled in deep voice, no doubt mocking whoever said those words first. "Violet Reyne is dead; _dead_, _dead_, _DEAD" _the name twisted something painful inside her. Somewhere in the deep, bottomless pit of forgotten memories, a small light ignited as that lost name echoed in her ears. It brought forth a strange feeling, one made up of sorrow and nostalgia, for whoever this woman had been before death, she had been loved and kind. She was someone to be missed and mourned.

"—dead as Ned Stark, traitor blackguard. But you got 'er face, hmm? Aye, sweet Lady Reyne, she was pretty, saw her once at the Imp's name-day feast. Told her I could make her sing like a bard for me if she came to my bed and her stupid husband wouldn't notice. Cold fish _refused_ me! _Me!_ Don't know why, Lord Eli spent half the night muttering to Tarbeck in the corner and her little cub wasn't at her tit." He laughed drunkenly. The hand curled around his wine cup lifted and coiled around her waist, his grip lazy in the state he was in. Maeve jumped, but was found she could not move, his words freezing her. "So I found me self another warm cunt. And the next day Tarbeck tried to _kill_ _me_ for giving his wife pleasure she so dearly needed."

At that moment Maeve found her wits and tried to wretch away from the man. His brash words shocked her. The _audacity_ him, she thought, lamenting over not being able to have one married woman and speaking so carelessly about taking another. But he held her arm tightly, even though the arm round her waist was shaken away with her sudden jerk.

"Hey what're ya doing? Do you know who I am girl?" he grunted angrily. "I'm Tyrek _Lannister_! Uncle Kevan killed that whore at Castamere 'fore I could get her skirt up and pump her cunny. But without that big belly, you look like her," he stood up, making her stumble a little and drop the wine pitcher to the floor with a smash, shattering the clay and sending wine all over the floor. "Come on then, be Violet Reyne for a night and I'll give ya two gold pieces." He ordered, pulling her wrist roughly.

Perhaps she should have felt frightened, and deep down she knew she probably was, but all she felt in the second it took to hit him was rage, hot as dragon fire. Her hand suddenly flew on its own and slapped sharply against his cheek.

It was not for the sake of her wounded pride that she struck him, but for something else entirely, something she'd forgotten, something that had been lost through time. Yet the feeling of grief converted into rage was still there, that had not been whipped clean from her memory. He snapped his eyes back at her, outrage written over his face. His hand was quick, strong and painful as it smashed against her cheek, sending her stumbling backwards into another table with its force. Instead of fear drowning her fury, her anger increased twice over, making her want to jump up and strike him again, harder and harder until her wrath was satisfied. But, pregnant as she was, she did not, instead reaching one hand up to cradle her burning cheek, cold fingers soothing the skin a bit, and another hand down to cradle the swell of her belly.

It all happened in only a few small moments so there was no time to think. Her feelings consumed her, like a sea storm over taking a fishing boat, only to release it once it entered calmer waters. She was faintly aware that things had quietened some; a few tables around her silencing their conversation to observe this violent transaction between the Lannister boy and the serving wench who'd dared hit him.

Suddenly, someone was brushing past her. Maeve looked up, and watched as Aunty Gin stood before '_Tyrek Lannister'_ as he called himself, and began to crow for pardon.

She frowned. Maeve didn't expect to see a woman that once seemed as strong and unyielding as steel, bend and mutter false praise and apologies to this man who deserved none of it. She half expected Aunty Gin to throw the man out, but quickly realised it would be impossible. In business, you don't throw out paying customers for the sake of one easily replaced employee. She felt afraid now, perhaps a bit stupid and a bit regretful, but it had felt so right to hit him.

But what if they threw her out for this? Maeve's gut twisted nervously at the thought. She thought she should apologize, but she shouldn't have to! He was being a sot, harsh and rude as he was, wine stinking his breath. Jon, a bastard child, had more honor and grace than this high born shit ever could.

Her hands clawed at the fabric at her hips. She felt so angry, at herself, at this man, at the horrible place she was in at the moment, where any slip could cost her a safe place to sleep. Her child would be along any day now, and gods be good, what would she do if she was forced to give birth in a dirty, vermin ridden alleyway? The heaviness of the day and its slow tedious evens settled on her with crushing weight. Could it be that all in one day she found a new home only to lose it that same night? It was indeed possible, almost laughable at the cruelty of it. Hitting the mouthy drunk had given her a strange joy, but as her wits returned to her, she began to fear what the deed would cost her.

"Please, my lord, she's deaf and dumb, didn't know what she was doing, doesn't understand what was happening." Aunty Gin spoke softly, and the lie drew Maeve's eyes upward toward the two. At that moment, she wished it was true. "It's all just a misunderstanding, please, have more wine and one of my special meat pies, no—" Aunty Gin reached for Tyrek's arm in the hopes to quieten the drunken rage bubbling within him, but he jerked away as if her skin had burned him. Another thing Maeve had learned through her observations was that wine not only made tongues loose, but made boldness grow and turn jolly humor to bitterness.

"Don't touch me you old whore!" he shouted his face red with anger, eyes as bright and burning as wildfire. "A Lannister always pays his _debts_, and I swear to you, this bloody shithole will burn for this!" His rage nearly frightened her. Then he stormed out of the tavern, stumbling a little, and disappeared into the night air, taking his anger with him and permitting the men to go back to their cheerful activities.

Aunty Gin turned icy eyes on her as Tyrek Lannister disappeared through the door. Maeve bit her lip. When she was little, just starting her lessons at the sept, her impudence got her many harsh looks like that from the elders and most often, those looks were followed by pain. They'd throw water on her back and beat her with a long switch and after a while, she'd stopped expected grand meals, new toys to play with or pretty dresses to run around in.

"Clean this up! I'll deal wit ya later!" Gin yelled at her, motioning wildly to the scattered shards and wine soaking the planks beneath their feet. Then the older woman stormed off, leaving Maeve dreading when she next saw her.

When the floor was picked clean of the sharp clay pieces, Maeve disposed of them in the waste pot in the kitchen.

"_Do you have any idea what you just did!?"_ a voice shrieked behind her, so sudden it made her nerves jump. Whirling around to face who was screaming at her now Maeve found the pretty girl, whose name she had still not learned, glaring at her. A slow pain spread through her lower back, a cramp, much like the kind she experienced when her moonsblood was upon her. She made a small sound of pain and rested one hand on the counter and the other on the lower part of her back, hoping the ache would pass soon. It was probably the heavy weight in front of her that caused her back to ache like this, and there would be nothing to do about that until the baby was born.

As she waited for the pain to pass, the pretty girl in front of her continued to shriek, looking as horrified as though she'd just seen a cat gutted in front of her.

"You've ruined _everything_! He was _mine_! He'll never come back to see me now! My plans are _spoiled_!" the girl cried, and the meaning of the words just barely registered to Maeve as the pain finally dissolved away.

"He was an arrogant presuming _prick_, you're better without him." Maeve spat, her restraint suddenly gone as she rubbed her back gently.

"Ha! How dare you! Stupid bitch, you are! Let me give ya a lesson: men _run_ the world, and women get _ahead_ using what's between their legs. He was _rich_, he paid me _good_! _That's_ what's right for me!"

"Have him then! I didn't want him! He grabbed for me!" Maeve cried; blush flamed across her neck and cheeks, her heart racing as she had it out with this girl.

"Why would he want _you_?" she scoffed, her pretty face twisting in disgust as she eyed Maeve up and down. Maeve would be lying if she said the repulsion she saw on her face didn't hurt. "You're fat with child, prob'ly from some ugly old man too. You seem cheap enough to let one fuck you for a few coppers; at least Tyrek paid me gold!" Maeve's jaw dropped in disbelief and anger as the words cracked against her chest. Her hand was about to fly on its own again and strike the insolent girl, but a strong yet gentle voice caused her to pause.

"Lia, stop it. She's enough to worry about without you screeching in 'er ear like a mad woman. He was drunk, grabbed for her and will pro'ly forget about this by morning." the two squabbling women turned to face the man who'd spoken. In the doorway that led out into the backyard and towards the stables, was an older man, around fifty, white hair sprinkled over his head, a round middle and a beard that just brushed the top of his belly. His face was unreadable as he watched the both of them, a calm and steady stare, silencing the two of them.

After a moment's pause, Lia huffed and stalked away, leaving Maeve alone with the man. It was silent a moment, muffled sounds of laughter coming through the wall, when Maeve finally spoke, her voice low with embarrassment for having been caught in a row with the little chit.

"You shouldn't be back here." She mumbled, staring down at the hands covering her belly, tears of rage and hurt threatening to spill over. "I'll bring you a drink, but customers aren't allowed back here." Maeve didn't know if that was a true rule, but she wanted him to go away. She didn't want someone she didn't know, a _stranger_, to see her like this. Maeve felt scattered; her wits gone, her quiet facade cracked to reveal the turmoil she never wanted let anyone see, the pain the baby caused beginning to break her down as the end of her pregnancy neared.

She wanted to be _alone_, with her thoughts, her stress; she wanted no one to see it, to look at her with understanding or pitying eyes, even if the idea of sharing some of the burden sounded like it would be a _relief_. Maeve didn't understand why she wanted to remain in this limbo, between heaven and hell, between wanting to be invisible and alone where she was safe, and wanting someone to look at her how Jon once did. She turned her further away from the man, to stare at the wall behind her.

"I ain't no customer, girl. I'm Hamal the stable hand." Maeve said nothing, made no indication she'd even heard him. She just remained there, her long auburn hair hiding her face. Hamal tried to smile. "Don't let Lia get t'ya. She'll get ov'r it once—"

"_Why are you still in here?!_" Maeve cried tremulously, anger flaring from her embarrassment. Her head snapped around to glare at him, tears welling in her eyes made her look more desperate than angry. Why couldn't this old man leave well enough alone? "I told you to go back there and I'll come out and serve you!" In the very back of her mind, she knew she had no right to order this man about; he who had been here far longer than her, but rationality did not whisper to her in that moment.

Hamal stood in a shocked and stung silence as the young woman before him tried to pull the cracked pieces of herself back together again. Young little thing couldn't be more than nineteen, swollen with a baby, hurt at Lia's jabs and exhausted to boot. He knew travel itself for a pregnant woman was hard, but travel at war for a pregnant woman was worse. He knew that Gin's brother had been killed during by their lord's men during the trip, and gods be good what had she, Tally and her daughter seen? His heart was stabbed with pity for the young woman, who was once again hiding her face behind a curtain of long hair; one hand raised up to wipe her eyes. A trembling gasp tore from her throat.

Hamal knew what to say, he knew what to do, but still feared the poor girl would break down into sobs. Two wives he'd had and twice as many daughters. The Seven never gave him sons, but he'd never felt like he'd lacked anything in his life. His daughters had all grown and left him long ago, and his wives had died and passed over to the Land of Eternal Summer. Over his life, living within his loving family, Hamal learned there are times to give a distraught woman comfort and times to leave her be, let her get the anger out and come back to ease the pain. Hamal didn't know which choice was better here, and didn't know if it was right to talk about these things with a girl he knew nothing of. But he spoke anyway.

"Everything ends," he began slowly, preparing for when she snapped at him in anger, or cut him off with blubbering. "Even what you're feeling now ends. Once that babe pops out o you, these feelings'll be nothin." Maeve sniffed, shifting at the unexpected kindness. She felt guilty for barking at him as she did. Hamal the stable hand was kind, kinder than anyone she'd met since arriving here.

Slowly, she turned her head to look up at the stable hand, peeking through the strands of her hair, but found she was alone once again, the cook having gone off somewhere, and the patrons from the tavern still content with the three other women servicing them.

Maeve stood there a long moment, collecting herself and feeling her heart slow to a normal pace. She sniffed and sighed as she wiped her eyes, hoping Hamal the stable hand was right. He was right about one thing, she was sure: everything ends; from the summer years, to the cold depths of winter, the rule of kings and the clutches of tyrants, it all ended someday. Nothing could be forever, and it gave her a small torch of hope to keep herself warm with.

Her baby moved inside her, twisting and shifting and poking his limbs through her skin. She touched the swell of her belly, prompting the child to land a kick on her palm. Gently, she pressed against the spot where he'd kicked, and tapped gently until he kicked her hand again. Moving to the other side of her belly, she repeated the action, enjoying the little game they played. As she played with the baby, her worries were pushed aside, not totally forgotten, but enough to let her enjoy this quiet moment.

She didn't even realize she was smiling until she said, "I should just name you Kicker and be done with it." She paused, lovingly rubbing her belly. "I can't wait to see you," she spoke softly to the bump. "Tally told me you'll be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen...just...be patient with me, little one." In answer, he moved against her hand again. She sniffed again, feeling strange tears of joy and fear and hope coming to her eyes as she spoke to her baby. "I love you so much already,"

When she first found out she was pregnant, it was surreal to her, another living thing growing inside her. The baby's existence seemed abstract somehow. She cared about it, and had an overtaking desire to protect it from threat...but couldn't say she'd loved it. Yet she wanted it, wanted this creature kicking her all the time, in her arms. She fully abandoned the Light of the Seven Gods for it, escaped the justice the sept would have dealt her if she'd stayed, all to keep her child safe. She'd do it again in a heartbeat. Maeve hoped when she saw her child the first time, all self doubt would fly from her heart, never to return.

"'Nother log on the fire! It's colder than a septa's tit in here!" a man called, breaking Maeve from her thoughts. Biting her lip, and brushing a hand across her swollen cheek to rid herself of any stray tears, she straightened herself, and left the empty kitchen.

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><p>The farmers looked so pathetic it humbled Jon to see them. A group of twelve commoners stood before them in Robb's tent, old men, young men, and two middle aged women with hollow eyes, the life taken from them and leaving shadows of what they once were. Their helpless, pleading eyes had tears in them as a broad man, middle in age, stood in front of his group, hands shaking around the pointed cap clasped in front of him.<p>

He recounted a story of slow terror, of living day by day in fear of the lords meant to protect them but instead abused them, robbed them of their food and homes, stealing their loved ones in the night.

King Robb, Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy, Lord Reed, and Lord Umber stood about the tent, standing tall and proud, making the broken farmers look even smaller.

"Y-your Grace, they-they've raised our taxes, so high they've taken to stealin' our...our _children_, Your Grace! Our children, our wives...they can't take muh sons twice, they've already sent 'em off to war." the man before them sniffed. It was sad to see a man that looked like he ploughed field's everyday of his life look so...hopeless.

The horror that accompanied this revelation was like a cold knife running up their backs. Their children? The lord's at Golden Tooth took _children_? By the Seven new gods and the Old, taking the children and wives of your people was an evil, a dreadful taboo that could be met with rebellion. A Lord's people served him, where was the sanity in stealing their children?

There was also the fact that these wicked lords had supposedly sworn to Robb. The lords that took these people's loved ones and crops and left them to starve were the ones that had sworn to help Robb sack the west. Jon's teeth ground together, and Robb's face turned cold, his hand clutching the sword at his hip as if he wanted to use it.

"When our coin, our food, our live stock isn't enough, they take what we love _more_ than li-life..." he said. A woman cried helplessly, breaking off into inconsolable weeping. The other woman beside her wrapped her long bony arms around her, but the woman's sobs continued uninterrupted. "They killed men who refused to fight for King Joffrey, murdered mothers refusing to let their sons go..."

Robb stood there before them, expressionless but Jon could see the anger written on his face. "The men need to hear this. They need to know what will happen from Dorne, all the way to Winterfell if we lose to the Lannister's." He turned to Lord Reed, Lord Umber, Lord Reed and Theon. "Go, spread the word. Let no man, woman or child be deaf to the truths of these crimes."

"At once, Your Grace." Lord Reed nodded, and the three men shuffled out of the tent to so as Robb bid.

Robb turned back to the shaking farmers, pity sparkling in his blue eyes. "I cannot give you back your homes, I cannot give you back your children," the second woman sniffed, barely holding back tears. "But I swear to you, the ones who did this will _die_ for their crimes. You _will_ have justice."

Jon wondered if the mere promise of justice was enough. Would they be able to deliver it? They were supposed to be aligned with these men, not butchering them. How could they ever hope to claim the west if they did this? What was right and what was necessary for victory were once again on a scale, where they balanced so delicately, just the slightest weight tipping it one way or the other.

Robb motioned with his hand and Olyvar, his squire, came forward. "My squire will find you a hot meal and a comfortable bed to sleep on."

"Thank you milor—_your grace_." The farmer took a shaky bow and followed the young Frey boy out of the tent, his people clouding around him out of instinct.

Presently, they were camped five days ride from Golden Tooth, half a thousand feet away from a depleted farm that looked as if it hadn't supported life for years. They were shocked when the half starved farmers crept from the farmhouse.

As they got closer and closer to Golden Tooth, Jon and Robb both grew uneasy. It felt too easy, no one gave up their home to army occupation without a bit of hesitance. Grey Wind was more on edge as well, growling at everyone but Robb, snapping his jaws towards the noble born sons of Golden Tooth who had been sent as a sign of good faith to Robb. Jon disliked the situation; he didn't like the smell of it, the look of it, the feel of it, he didn't even like the way Grey Wind had been acting as of late. Now he knew why.

"If word gets to the lords at Golden Tooth that you'll chop off their heads if they open their gates, no noble son we possess will get them to submit." Jon murmured to Robb, annoyed that his words were true. "You..." Jon wetted his cry lips. "You could forget this, you know." It was an ugly idea, but it needed to be said. What hope could there be of a successful siege if Robb planned to kill his allies? What would their father think? Jon's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.

At once, Robb swung around to glare at his brother in surprise. "Are you mad?" he demanded, the hard, kingly tone he used slipping as he spoke to his brother.

"No," Jon grumbled, eyes narrowing as he tried to explain. "You can't expect the entire west to hold to you if you hack off the heads of their nobles!" he exclaimed tersely. What else could they do? They'd already come too far to turn away now, they'd put too much at stake.

"You're a _fool_ if you think I can ignore this! They are stealing crops and livestock! They slaughter their own people, for god's sake." Robb argued back.

"Robb, none of those lords would trust you if you carry out justice. They'll keep their tongues still and their men close for fear whatever they do will make you want them dead. _That_ is a formula for betrayal."

"So what, am I to be just as corrupt as them? What the hell are we fighting for if not to end their madness? Sansa and Arya are gone from the Keep; they aren't in the queen's pocket. I don't want a lord who kills and robs his own people loyal to me. If I let one lord do as he pleases with his people, who's to say another won't take the advantage I give him?"

Jon cut off tersely. "I don't _see_ another option Robb." Robb was silent, but glared at Jon in a way that pinned other men, but not his brother. "I don't like it anymore than you. But Golden Tooth is too great a victory to ruin. Taking the west will cripple the Lannister's financially—"

"I don't need you to tell me what we'll lose!" Robb growled exasperatedly. Robb sighed and walked around Jon and lean his hands against the table, facing away from Jon. "If they were the people your septa cared about so much, would you look at this differently?" Robb wondered aloud. Jon's back stiffened, his knuckles whitened. "Would you care more for their suffering?"

Jon had changed, Robb could see it. He was...not colder but...had more of a sharper edge to him. But oddly enough, Jon remained soft to the refugees that shadowed the camp's every step, visiting them in their simple abode, rationing small amounts of food to them and often sending a maester to keep them in health. Robb knew it must have been for that woman, that septa, why Jon gave them so much kindness because now, with these new people to avenge, Jon opted to ignore _their_ suffering and go on and take Golden Tooth without acknowledging them. At least, that is how Robb viewed it.

Jon saw it as saving his brother and his men a lost victory. If they didn't take the west, they wouldn't have the funds to continue their rebellion. And if that happened, Robb may as well just hand himself over to the queen and all her following sheep. They had lost a great bargaining chip when Catelyn Stark freed the Kingslayer, under some foolish delusion that honourless knight would find a way to free Sansa and Arya. She'd set Jaime loose just days before they got word that Sansa was missing with the Hound, and that Arya had disappeared before Eddard's execution. Jon blamed Catelyn for her weakness, for freeing the Kingslayer. If they took the west, no one could say their cause had no power.

"Don't talk about her." Jon finally said his voice quiet but steady.

For a long moment it was silent between the two brothers, when at last Robb spoke. "I want you and Lord Reed, to lead five thousand men for Golden Tooth. Situate yourselves in the mountains surrounding the city keep and watch until I get there. Until we have Golden Tooth in hand we will continue on as though _nothing_ has changed." Robb commanded.

"As you will, Your Grace." Jon bowed and then promptly left the tent. As he weaved through heavy bodies of the men, now bustling excitedly with the horrid stories of the farmers already circulating through the camp, Robb's command really hit him. Five thousand men...Jon hoped it would be enough to hold Golden Tooth if the lords were to go back on their vow to surrender to Robb.

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><p>Soooo tired...it's 1AM here, and I'm just so happy I got this out :)<p>

please tell me whatcha think ! :P


	20. Chapter 20: Skyfall

**Heyy! long time no update, I know :'(**

**please accept this humble offering of chapter 20, to appease my loyal readers :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 20 <strong>

Maeve clung to the shawl around her shoulder, pulling the fabric just under her chin. Although the fire burned in the loft above the tavern, the cold of winter still seeped through the walls, and chilled her, making her breath come in white puffs and her fingers freeze as she moved them slowly and precisely. The tips of her fingers grew numb as she moved back to her task, holding the needle in one hand and held the fabric in another.

It had been a week and a day since she'd arrived there at Golden Tooth, and since then life had...calmed somehow, nothing truly notable had happened for which she was grateful. It was quiet, and she enjoyed it greatly now that her days had a set plan. Every day she got up, went downstairs and after breaking her fast on a slice of bread and lumpy porridge, she would go to the markets with Tally, Gin, Baba and the third woman whose name was Vymia. Together, they would gather the things they needed to keep the business afloat. But it was difficult, Maeve found quickly.

The butcher raised his prices from four silvers for a whole pig, to five gold dragons. The baker didn't sell you flour until he saw a gold dragon and a parcel of meat to trade. The fishermen's catch went rotten in the crates, the spice, jewel and silk traders from Lys, Myr and Pentos had left long ago from Golden Tooth for their prices were too high for the people to buy. There was less help because all the young men had gone off to war, less fish, less game, no blacksmiths, little in the way of crops. People were slowly starting to feel their hunger as this war progressed, as boy kings sat on their thrones and ate their fine meals as the realm starved.

Despite the hardship, Gin managed to buy some meat, some vegetables, oats and flour, but there was very little because of the barrels of sour wine and beer they brought back to the tavern. Men liked getting drunk; they seemed to enjoy making shameful fools of themselves and spending their nights in lonely company. Maeve didn't understand it, but supposed she didn't have to if it got her paid.

On one of those early morning outings just three days ago, Maeve clutched ten copper pennies in her hand, hidden away from Gin and the others for fear they'd take it from her if they saw her hiding money. Maeve hadn't gotten the money...honestly. As she collected payment for the last four nights, she looked at the handful of coppers in her hand, her heart aching with desperation, beating furiously in her breast as she wished sinful wishes.

As a child, she had tried to run away from the sept and when they caught her, she screamed and thrashed in their arms, screaming for her mother, tears running down her face. But her mother never came...and somewhere deep inside her Maeve knew she never would. That's why she felt so ashamed when remembering her forgotten mother, for time had faded her memories until all she remembered was an echo, so tenuous it felt like the memory of some dream from long ago. Septon Syvos, who had died on the back roads many moons ago when her belly didn't show, gave her no meals for three days and seven welts on her palms in reprimand for her attempt.

Two days in, she had been so hungry and in survival, a child, noble or low born, can have no honour or fear of punishment if she wants to eat...so she slipped an apple into her pocket and scurried away to devour the thing, her belly gurgling painfully afterward. It wouldn't be the last time she stole food from the gardens or the empty plates of the elders out of hunger. But as the years went by and with the codes and morals of the Seven promising eternal summer to its loyal and devout servants, her hand didn't reach out to relieve the pain of hunger anymore, her vows overriding her instincts to rebel and survive. That had changed when her small, innocent child had come under threat, when she saw the opportunity to escape.

Years of loyalty and devotion, _snipped_ just like that. Although her heart carried so much love for her baby, it also felt heavy with guilt in her betrayal, proving that part of her still—after all the things she'd done, after every vow she broke and every time she told herself she'd done what was right—there was still doubt in her heart, still a part of her that remembered and grieved for the life she'd lost. Maeve was shocked at how easy it had been in that moment, to just run away like she did, no hesitation, no turning back, just a sudden moment, a choice made in a heartbeat that changed her life.

It had not been as easy as she felt those little coins in hand, her mind mulling over the possibilities. Maeve _needed_ that money; she brought in coppers and silvers, but her rent left her with no money for herself. What could Gin possibly miss? But what if she did notice and cast her out for it? Gin had nearly sent her away when the ugliness with Tyrek Lannister happened, but let it go when Tally begged and promised Maeve would bring in extra coin when her baby was born. Maeve didn't care what implications Tally had set forth, she was just grateful to still have a warm, clean place to sleep.

But...her baby _needed_ this, not her. So for the past few days, each time she collected payment from some drunkard, she'd take a penny or maybe two and hide it away from the collection she was to hand into Gin. When she had enough, she went to the markets and bought a small square of warm wool. She stitched it now, carefully so as not to ruin the fabric, and tried her best to make something warm for the baby to wear until she could afford more.

She...stole the coppers without realizing how _expensive _it would be providing for a child. Her baby needed clothes, something to keep it warm during the winter when her bosom and arms weren't enough, her baby needed a toy or two to keep it entertained when she was working, he needed clouts, she would need rags for when she began to bleed again, mayhaps a cradle as well, a sling to wrap around her and hold him when her arms were busy, and a healer to visit to stave off fever and disease.

It suddenly occurred to her how _hard_ it would be, to raise a mewling babe at breast, dependent on what little money she could extract and the tavern where her place was as unsteady as toddler's feet, with a world at war just outside shaky walls. She wanted to cry, but didn't let herself linger too long on all the worry the future brought. Women had been raising bastards on their own for years, if _they_ could do it, why not she? She had an education; shouldn't that give her an advantage?

Lia mocked her a day or so ago, calling her baby what it was, a bastard, in an attempt to cut Maeve deeply. It hurt Maeve, to think that that is what people will call her child, to think that maybe he would be limited in life where he could be _so much more_ than a pig farmer or a baker or a fisher. But it didn't hurt her any more than that. She didn't worry over if he would be good or honest or kind or fair, because its father was as good and kind and honest as any true born son. But the _world_ was cruel, and judged and hurt and shunned, and she didn't want to world to spoil her baby. Maeve could handle the shame; it might not be so hard to live with when her baby was there in her arms, looking up at her so innocent. But a child born in shame...she worried.

Pain suddenly jolted through her back and spread to her hips, so sudden and intense it halted her work and made her scrunch up her face in pain. A strangled grunt growled from her throat as she let go of the needle and clenched the fabric at her hips, instinct making her pant through the pain.

For the past eight days the pain had come back on and off, and each time the pain seemed to last a little bit longer and was a little bit stronger. At first they just tore through her every dozen hours or so, waking her in the night and slowing her work efforts in the day. Then they occurred sooner and sooner, every few hours and now they ripped through her _every_ hour, longer and stronger than she'd ever felt it. Maeve had never known anything like it, the pressure, the _pain_, the instinct that told her to do things she didn't know how to do, or didn't understand. Still she kept silent...she didn't know why but she didn't complain to the other women. After all, Tally had said there would be false pain toward the end, when her body made itself ready to birth.

At last the pain dissolved, leaving her heart beating hard in her chest and a slight flush on her forehead.

"_Come on you bastards and fools!"_ a distant voice called gruffly from outside the closed shutters. _"Them north'rn howlers won't wait if we ain't ready!"_ That was probably one of the reasons she kept her agony silent: the busy soldiers outside the tavern walls.

She remained still a while, gathering the strength and when she was ready, Maeve stood on her weak and shaky legs, and dropped her needlework down on the chair. Curiously she walked to the window (sidestepping the little pile of blankets on the floor that served her as a bed) and slowly pushed open one of the shutters. The cold air hit her gently, curling over her body like a gentle caress, making her shiver as she looked down into the street.

Down below, men and boys scrambled about, some awkwardly holding spears and axes and dull swords in their hands. The street was filled with them; stands and carts full of merchandise and foods had been pushed aside, knocked down or trampled to make way for the army gathering at the city walls. Very few civilian men could be seen, there was the odd street-child barely visible running through the countless bodies in the crowd, probably snatching what he could. Women however, were confined to watching from windows, like her. A red banner with a golden lion flew awkwardly in a young man's hands, the pole crooked as though he did not have enough strength to hold to sigil for very long. Most of them had probably never had any training for war, or held a spear in their life, or even had any real care over who sat on the Iron Throne, but there they were, preparing for battle.

The other day, news had come from scouts that a northern horde approached the gates of Golden Tooth, twenty thousand strong and led by the Young Wolf himself.

Maeve didn't know what to feel or if to believe a word of it. She was afraid: afraid of the northerners winning and taking Golden Tooth with blood and slaughter. Surprisingly, she wasn't afraid of the northerners losing. Robb Stark had _never_ lost a battle and she had seen the destruction he left behind firsthand during her year in his camp. _When_ they won, another night like the one on the road would come with it, only this time Ghost wouldn't save her. It was like looking through someone else's' eyes as she blankly watched the men move in the streets, screaming commands out into the wind waiting for someone to follow. When she heard the telltale creaking of the stairs as someone climbed them, she quickly shut the window and turned to greet the person.

Tally climbed up the steep steps, weary looking with her warm shawl wrapped around her and Dorna both. So many soldiers gathered toward the front entrance of the city, and so their little tavern had been getting quite a lot more business than is typical.

"Gods, what are they doin out there?" Tally asked tiredly, sitting on Vymia and her son's bed and slowly rocking a cranky looking Dorna. "Woke up my baby; she's hasn't got any sleep from last night neither." Since that night on the road, Tally kept her daughter closer to her all the time. Where she had once let the child out and about to get in natural mischief other children her age got their selves into, Tally now kept Dorna at her side as often as she could.

"I don't know; looks like they're trying to make themselves presentable." In truth, Maeve had a very good idea what they were planning, and had a feeling Tally did as well, but it was a common thing among women to not talk about these ugly things in front of little ones.

After a while, Dorna closed her eyes and her clutch on her mother's shoulders loosened a bit and they felt it was safe to talk about those delicate matters they dared not mention in front of the children.

"Do you think...um, is it safe here?" Maeve asked, wishing she was the one who had the answers. "They say Robb Stark's marching towards us, he'll be here at any moment now." It bothered her to ask such important queries to a girl younger than her for some absurd reason, but there was precious little else she could do. Gin despised her enough already, the other women kept a careful distance from her, fearing Gin's animosity would catch onto them if they talked to Maeve, and she was still ashamed of being so rude of Hamal.

"I don't know. I heard one of the soldiers down there, big ugly brute with armour made special, say that Robb Stark's a stupid little boy and the troop outside will crush him before the day is over." Tally exclaimed in an excited rush, the worry in her eyes heightening as she spoke.

"I think we should leave, go to the sea, to the ports. The Lannister's won't let the Rock be taken, it's too valuable. We could be safe there." Maeve suggested. All she wanted was to be safe, and that simple wish was getting harder and harder to achieve. It felt as though everywhere she turned, every step she took, led her deeper into the pit. She felt _trapped_.

Tally eyed her up. "You can't. You're due any day, if we got caught up in travel—"

"What if it came during a siege?" Maeve asked hotly, eyes wild with terror. "We'd be raped, our children—" Maeve broke off, the notion unspeakable. She sniffed, sighed and shifted, turning her head when she heard more loud orders from behind the closed shudders. "Tally, we can't stay here. I don't care if I give birth on the road, its better than staying here."

"Why do you want to go _back_ on the road? Don't you remember how it was? _I do."_ Tally hissed out at her, brows narrowing and eyes watering as painful memories came back again for what felt like the hundredth time. "It's not that I'm worried your baby will come on the road—I gave birth during a long journey, it's not so terrible—it's what might happen to us, _again_. I can't just abandon my uncle's tavern and where in the Seven Hells would we _go_ when we got to the ports? What would we _do?_ Become port-wives?"

"Well, no, I—"

"Then how'll we keep a roof over our heads? Men don't want wives who already have bastards. They'll look to fuck us, _maybe_ throw us something shiny if they're feelin' kind and leave—" Tally ranted, sounding more and more determined and frenzied with each passing word. Maeve was talking madness, _leaving_ without anything to support herself, and looking to lead Tally and her _daughter_ away...it was simple stupidity.

"We don't have to, we can—" maybe they could steal, pickpocket. It was unpleasant, but Maeve didn't need pleasant in order to keep herself and her child safe. She didn't want to sell her body any more than Tally did. She refused to do it, but if it was between that and her and her child both starving and freezing and getting sick...she didn't want to think about it.

"What can we do? We're women; we only have a talent for spreading our legs. We don't have no trade to sell, we can't sew any better'n any other woman, we can't bake without a shop, we wouldn't even be able to be maids with our babies on our hips." Tally spoke the truth, Maeve knew it, but what would happen if an army broke through those gates?

"We can't stay here, Tally, don't you see? We can steal—"

"You'll be leading me and my Dorna to starve if we don't lose our hands first!" Maeve's patience snapped.

"Shut up!" she suddenly yelled, surprising even herself with the harshness of her tone. Dorna jumped awake at the sudden shouts, her tight hold on her mother renewed as her wide eyes darted around in fear. Maeve felt a prickle of shame for scaring the little girl, but she had to continue. "Let me talk!" Tally clutched her girl close, eyes, now angry, never leaving Maeve's face. "If we stay here, and the northmen come though...imagine the road only _ten times worse_."

Tally's face remained unmoved, but fear flashed in her eyes. Dorna whimpered, and something sunk inside Maeve. What kind of mother would she make? She scared a little girl and reminded her of probably the most terrifying night of her young life. Tally was afraid too, maybe not in the same way she was, but something was tearing at her just as fiercely as it was tearing at Maeve. Without another word or glance, Maeve stood and waddled down stairs. She didn't want to leave by herself, no more than she wanted to argue with Tally. Too many bad things happened when you were on your own and she felt a strange attachment for the girl and her daughter. They had saved her from starvation and loneliness and exposure, they gave her warm things to eat and a new dress and shoes to wear when hers wore away to nothing. They had given a place for her to stay and their friendship. It would be hard to be without them, to worry and fret over what would become of them if she were not there to see it.

Oddly calm, Maeve made her way down to the kitchen where the dough was being kneaded by the cook and the meats were being stewed in a pot as though nothing had changed, as though the world was aright and men weren't coming to slaughter them. Perhaps it was good to pretend; perhaps life would be so much scarier and much more painful if people faced the truth.

"Whatdya want?" the old cook asked gruffly without looking up from his work. He was old and bald and was as round as anything, and Maeve had never truly learned his name, but the others called him Otis.

"Do you want help?" she asked. There were men in the mess hall, not so many that she was needed. If she went, the other women might think she was encroaching on their territory. Tally had said the first night they arrived to mind who she took to bed, so that the other women didn't hate her for taking their "regulars", and after the incident with that Lannister sot, her advice became a daily rule for her to live by.

He took his hands out of the dough and turned towards her, holding out the bowl he was working the white lump in. "Knead this." She took it, and stuck her hands into the dough. "Not like that, knead it like you're mad at it. Yes, that's it. Make sure there's no little pieces left over." The old cook may have been gruff, but at least he gave her something to do, something to keep her mind off what was happening outside.

Her knuckles painfully pressed against the hard clay of the bowl as she pressed and pounded, reminding her of all the times a switch had painfully beaten down on her knuckles as punishment, which made her think of the Faith in general. She thought of the seven gods she trusted, as a child trusts her mother, she thought of every time she prayed, of every time she fasted during the harvest celebrations, of every time her heart ached when she thought of the one thing she would never have: a family, a true flesh and blood family of her own. _The gods are laughing at me somewhere_, she thought as she beat the dough under her fists.

Was running away the right of it? Not just from Golden Tooth to Lannisport but from the sept to the life of a free woman in poverty? Was living day to day, being simply thankful for a warm meal and a safe place to sleep, really worth it? What would have happened if she hadn't run away? Would she be safer? Better fed? Healthier? She knew there would be pain at the end if she had stayed with the septons and septas, but would she have been better off knowing what was coming to her, rather than live in _constant_ fear and worry over what _might_ come to her? Maybe her baby would have been better off as well. Maybe they wouldn't have made her drink the tea, maybe they would have let her give birth, give her child away and then deal out her punishment. Perhaps her baby would have been given to a family with a mother and a father who could give him better care than she could. When she found out she was pregnant, she had been _so sure_ they'd make her get rid of it, but now she was lost in the tormenting world of what could have been.

Suddenly the floor boards creaked just a few feet away from her. Maeve spun around expecting the cook to be closer to her than he should have...and found a dirty little boy standing in the kitchen. Maeve hadn't even realized the cook had left the kitchen.

He froze when she whirled around to face him, eyes widening in fear and shock. He was a small little thing, short mussed up brown hair which fell into his eyes, dirty, shabby clothing and, oddly, no shoes. He was girly faced with the small nimble fingers of a girl, not the broad fingers of a boy. And between his girl's fingers was a fresh loaf of bread, snatched off the cooling rack atop of the stove. Her heart leapt. If he took that, the cook would have her neck!

With that in mind she thrust towards the boy but he was too quick, dancing out of the way, graceful as a cat and in a flash, stole out of the kitchen through the open doors, into the stable yard and out of sight, bread in hand.

Maeve waddled out after him as quickly as she could, a foolish attempt to catch the young boy when she could barely get up the steps to the loft without feeling absurdly tired by the time she reached the landing. "Hey! Stop! Thief!" she cried uselessly. The boy was gone, and the cow only looked at her, chewing loudly on some feed with indifference. A short, distressed sigh left her.

Gods, why her?

Suddenly, a warm gush came between her legs, happening so quickly and unexpectedly, she didn't have a moment to panic. Snapping her head down, Maeve stared in shock at the puddle of water she now stood in. Her mind went blank, unable to process what just happened, unknowing what it meant. It hadn't hurt, but it came from _inside_ her.

Not daring to move for fear movement would make it worse, Maeve looked up, hoping her voice would carry to the loft above. "Tally! _Tally!" _she screamed clutching her dress as tight as she could.

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><p>Jon watched from the jagged mountain tops surrounding Golden Tooth. It was oddly familiar, a little like watching from the Wall except this time there was actually something to <em>see<em>.

From above the city's buildings were just small square shapes, no bigger than the nail on his middle fingers. The people were just little specs, so insignificant by themselves, but Jon could plainly see where they amassed at the front gates of the city, a moving mass like ants of a mound of dirt.

Part of him wanted to believe it was all just a farce, a show put on by the lords to prove that they are not weak when they surrendered easily to Robb, but in his heart he knew the truth the second he saw the growing army gathering behind the city gates. Robb had been betrayed, if he had ever _had_ their loyalty.

The sons the nobles in the west had sent to prove loyalty were probably just decoys, or the second sons who held no greater value than a daughter. They had no intention of siding with Robb, no plan to dissipate House Lannister and elect a new Warden of the West. Tywin Lannister's might and wrath must have been too great for them to risk. Jon wanted to put a sword through their throats.

But he held fast, and sent three trusted scouts back to Robb's host.

They would _not_ be caught unawares.

* * *

><p>The loft was all but empty, the beds made, the fire lit. The shudders were closed, shutting out the noise of outside. The sounds of heavy panting filled the room from the girl standing by the bed, clad only in her shift. Her auburn curls hung down around her face, hiding the discomfort etched there. She was hunched forward, clinging to the bed post for support as the ginger haired girl behind her rubbed her back in hopes of providing comfort.<p>

"Why didn't ya tell us you were having those pains?" Tally asked gently. The argument from before was forgotten and all that mattered now was surviving the difficult hours that lay ahead.

"I...I didn't know." Maeve gasped. Another contraction stuck her, clenching and agonizing, drawing a strangled whimper from her as her hands clenched so tightly on the post her knuckles turned white. Was that normal? Was it meant to hurt _so_ much? "Ow, ow, ow-www-ww," she sobbed, tears collecting in her eyes, but didn't fall.

"Shh, shh," Tally soothed, rubbing Maeve's back in gentle circles. "It's alright, it's almost over, it's almost over. You're alright."

Finally it stopped and Maeve wanted to cry. Behind her, Tally pried her cramping hands away from the post and guided her to sit down on the bed, earning a little groan from the woman. Maeve didn't know anything about birth; she didn't even know how to push! It felt too soon, too sudden. She wasn't ready! She didn't have the things he needed or a place for him to sleep or even a _name_ to call him...or her. "Please make it stop." She pleaded to Tally.

"I can't. The pain is what the gods cursed us with, and pain is what you'll get." She said. She picked up Maeve's abandoned dress, pooled carelessly on the floor and threw in on the chair. They'd been at this for nearly _four_ hours, her and Tally. Maeve couldn't describe how grateful she was to have the younger girl there with her, holding her hand and telling her it was alright and that the unbearable pain was completely natural.

When Maeve screamed for Tally down in the stable yard, she, Lia and Baba had come running outside to see what was wrong. Lia rolled her eyes and walked back inside briskly when she saw the puddle of water beneath Maeve's feet. Maeve didn't care. Insolent little tart was too aware of her beauty and thought herself better than the rest of them. But Baba and Tally rushed to her side, taking her hands and helped her back up to the loft. They pulled her dress off and gave her a drink of water. Then Baba had to leave to serve the wine downstairs to the arriving soldiers and Gin very nearly called Tally to go with her, but Tally stayed. To give the two women some room, Gin took little Dorna downstairs and watched her in her private room since she was too little to be a cupbearer.

Now the sun was gone and the moon hid behind black clouds, and pain came so quickly that Tally said it wouldn't be long now.

"Here, lie down." Tally came forward and lifted her legs while Maeve settled down on the pillows. Baba had been kind enough to let her use her bed.

"_Forward! The northmen will only get through those gates in pieces!_" a voice roared outside, shocking Maeve into remembering what was coming. Her eyes widened and she tried to sit up, but Tally pushed her back down again.

"We have to go, we have to—" her voice sounded high and panicked to her ears. Outside, a thousand voices roared up in a thundering cheer that awoke the night from sleep and inspired fear in the common people.

"We can't go anywhere with you like this. We can't rush these things and we can't stop them, they happen as they meant to." Maeve began to cry. The careful stitched together life she had created was crumbling around her. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, had never lost a battle. A moment later, another contraction came over her, stronger than the last. A scream erupted from her, filled with everything she could not put into words. Her belly clenched tightly and she felt the urge to bear down.

When it ended, she fell back onto the pillows. Why would any woman _want_ this? And why hadn't someone somewhere come up with something to make the pain _stop_, if women had been doing this for thousands of years? She wondered why making children felt _so_ good, when birthing the result was... excruciating.

The next hour continued with relative silence, save for the screams Maeve released every time a contraction hit her.

"Shhh, you're doing well, remember to breathe, it's alright." Tally soothed as Maeve hunched forward and cried out loudly. Her throat was raw from all her screaming, but she still had to cry out the pain of labour, there was no way out of that. She took Maeve's hand in her own but that was no good. Everything still felt upside-down. "Shh, just do what your body tells you to do, sweet, and you'll be—" loud footsteps coming up the stairs cut her off, coming so quickly she didn't have time to scream at the offending person to stay out of the loft.

The stable boy—the rat faced, pox scarred young man they called Pox—came up the stairs, wearing his cap and boots and cloak, panting and fearful looking. Maeve tensed in Tally's arms. In all the time she was here, Pox only looked frightened when he nearly lost all his money in a dice game. He looked terrified now.

"Get out of here!" Tally screamed, thrusting her hand towards the stairs behind him to make the point clear. The pain began to dissolve again, leaving her breathing hard and tired and she almost didn't hear what Pox said next.

Pox paid no care. "Tally we 'ave ta leave! Yamin just told me, the northerners just scaled the walls and they say there are more, coming over the side of the mountain, like ghosts!" The fear and shock that accompanied his words was so strong it froze them a moment. Maeve lifted her head, sweaty and clutching her belly and simply stared at him with an unreadable, steely look. Tally looked frightened but she did nothing, said nothing, and made no move to flee. "They say the rebel has twenty thousand men beyond the wall! Let's go!" he shouted, trying to get the two women to move.

Tally's first movements were small at first—pulling her arms away from Maeve's clutch, standing and walking to the chair where Maeve's dress had been thrown—but then all at once, her actions took on a hurried, almost frenzied, speed. Clutching Maeve's dress, she hurried back to where Maeve sat on the bed, hauled her up swiftly without care of whatever protest the pregnant woman might have voiced, and yanked the dress over Maeve's head. Maeve simply stood there, too stunned and tired to do or say anything. But unthinkingly, Maeve got her arms in the sleeves herself, having dressed herself thousands of times before. Tally tied it up as best she could with shaking hands.

It suddenly occurred to Maeve what Tally was doing, and her heart swelled with gratitude and relief. A soft smile pulled at her lips and for a brief second, it was like they could do this, they could escape and be gone from the city before they ever saw a northerner.

"What? With her?" Pox exclaimed with disbelief. "She'll just slow us down!" he cried. Maeve shot him a look, but that was it and the two scurried down the stairs.

* * *

><p>The battle had started in a kind of odd way. From what he would be told later, Robb's men on the other side of the gate had scaled the walls and upon seeing them, the army of Golden Tooth soldiers had shot some of them down, most of their arrows being lost in the wind and darkness. On the outer edges of the city, above in the mountains on either side of the city gates, the five thousand men Robb had charged him and Lord Reed with, leased their arrows down upon the army in a surprise attack as they were occupied with the men atop the wall. And before they even realized where the enemy arrows were coming from, the men charged from the mountains, making their way to the gates where they would open them to allow Robb's men in.<p>

The charge to the gates had not been without a substantial amount of difficulty. The horde in front of them was too stunned to realize a measly troop of two thousand before them could easily be trampled in close combat, but the arrows still flying from the mountains gave the illusion that their troop was bigger than it was. Still within the first few moments, a quarter of the two thousand men were dead and many others wounded. The gates were larger than they'd anticipated, wide enough to allow twenty knights to march alongside each other shoulder to shoulder.

Jon was among those down in the city, shouting orders for the men around them to cover the builders and smiths as they hacked and chipped and broke the wrought iron gates that held Robb's army out. Lord Reed remained above in the mountains, directing the arrow path to the front of the Lannister horde.

And then finally, the final axe blow was laid on the gates and their locks, and the gate opened, allowing the men on the other side to charge in.

It was unfortunate to say that many of the men, who had just opened the gates to their king's army, had died as a result of being trampled by the very army they just let in. Jon managed to stay head of the stampede running up behind him, and reached the terrified looking Lannister army just a scant second before they northmen behind him did.

The battle was bloody, as it always was, but this time he didn't see his brother or his Grey Wind in the crowd as he used to. For every battle they had fought together, they had never strayed far, even when things were tense and horrible between them. Jon watched out for Robb, and Robb watched out for Jon. Now Jon was on his own, and fearful of what had happened to his brother, why he was not there. _Robb has his banner men_, he thought as he slashed at a man raising a spear, _he has Grey Wind, he's fine_.

A blow abruptly landed on Jon's back, hard and crushing and he was immediately thankful for the armour protecting his back. The air was knocked out of his lungs at the force of the painful blow. How had he not seen that? He realized in the same instant, that when he lost sight of his brother in battle, Ghost was the one to protect his back. When Ghost had gone, Grey Wind had taken the role and now—

And then the second blow came, even more devastating than the first as the metal of the armour dented with the force. This time the attack sent him to the ground, gasping and in pain...defenceless, vulnerable, like a wounded animal watching, waiting for the hunter to come and finish him off.

The man raised his hammer; Jon didn't even see his face, only the weapon rising up, gathering strength behind it to give the last killing blow. Jon's hands shook with the shock of the pain in his back, he could not raise up his sword to defend himself. Was this it? Was this how he died? Alone on the battle field, bitter and angry and hurt, missing someone he had lost? Maeve's face flashed though his mind. He didn't want to die; he wanted to see her again, to touch her hair, breathe in her scent, hold her close, tell her he loved her. His hands shook so terribly that he couldn't even regain a grip on his sword. It seemed as though he'd never do any of those things...he'd never do anything again.

All of a sudden, a glowing orange blur knocked into the man about to bring down the hammer.

The man's screams were lost among the roar of battle and quickly his screams were choked by blood. Weakly, Jon rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow to watch what had saved him. Blood leaked from Jon's mouth from where he had bitten his cheek when someone punched him, and his face was shining with sweat.

The first thing he noticed, was that it was big, and it was an animal, judging by the way it stood on four paws as it ripped apart that man. The animal that had attacked the one trying to kill him, he realized. No wild beast was tame enough to do that. For a moment, he thought Grey Wind, but immediately the thought was gone as he stared at the glowing fur. Grey Wind's fur didn't glow in firelight; his fur was too dark for that.

The dire wolf turned, licking the blood from around his mouth, eyes glowing red in the fire light. "Ghost?" Jon gasped in disbelief.

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><p>YEEEESSSS! finally I've been waiting for the chapter for the past 6 or 7 chapters :)<p>

please review for I do so love to hear feedback ;)


	21. Chapter 21: The World is Quiet

**please please please, forgive me if this chapter is bad, just tell me and I'll make it better. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 21 <strong>

The narrow streets of Golden Tooth were swarmed with panicked people, old and young and feeble alike, some with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a small parcel of food, others with an entire cart of belongings and gaggles of children huddled together. Some were even soldiers, still in their armour, who had abandoned the battle after it was clear it was lost. The men and women of the Creaky Wheel tavern were amongst those who ran half blindly into the night, seeking refuge in the west. Hundreds of feet drummed against the half frozen earth with haste, shouts of fear and urges to hurry were all that could be heard, with the light whisper of heavy breathing and muffled sobs. The sounds of battle were growing closer, spreading from the city gates and outwards into the streets, adding more urgency into their panicking.

"Come on! Come on!" someone screamed. His order did not make the people go faster, having no power over the fearful mob.

Maeve struggled to move with the crowd, but each and every step was difficult. Horrible even. At first Tally and Dorna had been beside her and stayed close, the others only a few steps ahead and for a moment she believed she could do this, escape as she had before. But the first time she escaped, she had been small, the baby—it had just been...an idea, something that couldn't be real, something that barely alerted her of its existence. But now, her womb clenched with pain and stopped her cold in her tracks, and made it clear that this was reality, by the morning she'd be a mother, to a living breathing infant, not just a moving bulge beneath her dress. That is, if she survived the night.

Unlike the other times, there was no kind comforts murmured by Tally, although those hardly helped in the first place. Still, it had been nice to hear something soft and encouraging. Now she was alone, all familiar faces lost in the crowd, all kind comforts gone and dead.

Maeve whimpered and gave a loud cry as another contraction hit her, freezing her legs along the side of the street, as pain ripped through her lower extremities. Her body was frozen, and no amount of people pushing and shoving past her could make her legs move.

Suddenly someone heavy knocked into her side and pushed her into the stone wall beside her, but she hardly registered the action; it was almost a relief to have something keeping her up, and not having to rely on her weak legs. Immediately, she curled forward and tried breathe deeply. She had been hit before, she had been cut, and had feet blistered so horribly that they bled and still walked on them, but this pain outmatched them all. It seemed to go on endlessly, with her unable to do anything to make it end or ease.

_It wasn't supposed to be like this_, she thought suddenly. Her life wasn't supposed to be like this. She had never imagined this kind of life for herself. She never thought she'd feel so liberated yet so entrapped, so sad and alone yet not alone at all. Some would even call her blessed, and she supposed she was in some ways, but how could she appreciate the good, when the bad seemed so _big_? Her old dreams had flown away when Jon had crossed her path, replaced those hopes of favor and praise in her sept, with fledgling dreams that had been foolish and young.

She couldn't keep doing this—running, _moving_—it hurt too badly, and maybe she was doing more harm than good. Maybe something inside her would..._tear_ in her haste, or she would collapse and hurt herself, or die, or lose her baby. She had to stop, but she couldn't. Moving could mean death, not moving could mean death_. I'd be farther away by now if I had run sooner. Why didn't I leave sooner? Oh yes—because I am a stupid bloody coward_, she thought regretfully.

The auburn haired girl gasped for breath as it finally ended and before she could gather her strength again and will herself to move, a familiar voice cried out, "Maeve!" It was like a lifeline thrown to a man drowning too far from the ship, a small star of hope that it was not the end, while the sea around him thrashed and pulled his body below the waves, still reaching for that star.

Tally held Dorna in her arms, blinking wildly at the on-coming rush of frightened people, desperately hoping to see red hair or a pregnant belly. Hamal, Pox and Aunty stayed with her, but she could tell Pox was going to leave soon, he had a limp and it would take him a while to escape as it was and waiting any longer for the pregnant girl he cared nothing for would end up getting him killed. The next time Tally turned to ask Pox if he saw Maeve in the crowd, he was gone.

Her heart jumped. Her palms began to sweat. Dorna whimpered. Hamal was quiet by her side, fidgeting nervously, but carefully picking through the sea of faces, looking for the pregnant girl. Aunty kept screaming at her to forget the troublesome slut and run, yanking and tugging at her. A strange feeling crept up on her each time aunty pulled, one made up of nothing but fear and urgency—to do something, to move, to _survive_.

She couldn't leave Maeve to die—she was about to have her _baby_, an innocent little thing, helpless as a kitten—but _her_ baby, her Dorna, had to be safe as well. The bruises on her child's skin still hurt her, knowing she had been hurt, had been afraid, and that she, her _mother_, was powerless to protect her, to keep her safe, to keep the bad things out. And when it came down to it, there was no one else in the world she loved more than Dorna...it was hard, and she might hate herself for it, but keeping her daughter safe had more strength over her than helping Maeve.

The others were gone, most of them having abandoned them after the second time Maeve had stopped their progress—Vymia and Baba, and their children, Lia the pretty bar wench and Otis the cook, lost in gaggles of people and large wagons rumbling along slowly in the night. They were probably safe by now, right at the back gates of the city, while they searched hopelessly for a virtual stranger. It was the right thing to do, but it settled a terrible weight in her belly, making her feel sick.

Tally's feet tickled, she wanted to run. Dorna needed her; she couldn't let her baby be hurt, not like last time, not like last time...not like last time. Maeve would...she would be alright, someone with a cart would give her a ride, probably. People tended to have soft spots for babies, if not...

Tally frowned, tears of exhaustion coming into her eyes. Dorna sniffled and rubbed her face against the side of her mother's neck, tears wetting her skin. A lump formed in Tally's throat, her arms tightened around Dorna. Without a second glance she turned away and began to speed with the people around her, traveling west like a river, her aunt guiding her along. Hamal stood a moment in shock, turned back to the oncoming horde of frightened townspeople, waited a moment or two, and then joined them with a heavy heart.

No one stopped, no one tried to help her and Tally's voice was lost in the crowd.

The world had gone silent to her as she panted there against the stone wall, her heart pounded in her ears, loud and fast. Around her people swarmed and screamed, pushing and shoving towards some unseen finish line.

The screams scared her, touched something painful inside her, something from so long ago when other people had screamed in the night, when men came over walls and with bloody intentions, fire burning stone and when the smash and clang of steel had sounded so strange and foreign to young ears. Sadness and bitter hatred for some unseen, unknown foe engulfed her then, almost matching the naked despair growing inside her as minutes ticked by and the contractions grew stronger.

With a great amount of effort, conjuring up all the courage she had left, Maeve pushed off the wall, stumbling forward on her feet as quickly as she could. It was terrible, but still her feet moved. Then another wave of pain engulfed her being, she cried out because she had no more strength left to scream. _I'm dying_, she thought, _I'm dying_. _Oh my child, my poor poor baby_.

She collapsed once more, this time her side against sharp angular stone, her elbow holding her up, legs spreading apart by some baser urge. Her hand reached out, looking for leverage, and felt her fingers grip a ledge by her sides, the cold stone smooth and strong beneath her grasping fingers. Her body no longer obeyed her wishes, but did as it willed, instinct guiding it to do what needed to be done.

Maeve looked up, and hardly registered the impressive temple she laid before, or the Seven figures those strong marble pillars depicted.

Time was meaningless to her, she could have been there a few moments or hours, she did not know, didn't care. All she could focus on was the continuing cycles of pain, starting and ending and starting again so closely together she hardly had time to think.

Suddenly hands took her under her arms, hauling her up on weak legs.

* * *

><p>Ghost mauled another man's throat as Jon collected himself on the ground, pulling himself up with all the strength he had. He lifted his sword again. His chest felt heavy, his heart was beating as though he'd run a mile, and he felt ready to do it again, his muscles poised and ready to pounce.<p>

* * *

><p>"Let me go!<em> Let GO!" <em>Maeve squealed as the owners of the hands pulled her up the stairs, her feet stumbling and knocking painfully against the hard stone. She tried vainly to twist a little, to get them off of her, but her attempts were weak compared to their unflinching steadiness.

"Quiet, you." The aged voice of an elderly woman admonished her. They pulled her up the last step and Maeve's feet dragged on smooth, gleaming stone.

It was suddenly a bit warmer as the strangers pulled her through the threshold. The sounds of screaming and battle outside were muffled some, but the sounds of whimpers and sobbing and hushed voices became amplified as they bounced off hard stone walls. She opened her eyes, and then closed them immediately as the strong, sudden firelight blinded her.

A familiar smell flittered across her nose.

* * *

><p>The sword shone wetly in the firelight, stained with blood. Jon didn't know what was happening, who was winning who was losing. All he knew was to keep fighting, to cut down any man in Lannister colours. He was a soldier, and that is what soldiers do. He blocked out the faces, the noise...let them bother him some other time, some other night...not today.<p>

* * *

><p>Oils...spices... the scent of jasmine and lilies, of lavender and rose water and spices from across the Narrow Sea...she knew those smells, she knew them, she had inhaled them every day for years and years. Maeve knew them well...her heart dropped low in her belly. She twisted a little harder, and felt the hands clench tighter around her arms to keep her in place.<p>

She had to leave, leave, _leave!_ Run away as far as she could, somewhere they could never find her. They would hurt her, hurt her baby, she'd be thrown into the dark and never see her baby again. Her heart squeezed tightly.

"Please, let me go, let me go..." she whimpered, a hand reaching down to feel her belly, trying to protect it. She opened her eyes again just as they pulled her through another doorway, but in the light, everything was a blur.

"Come on, Sister, get'er on th' bed." a voice sounded beside her. Maeve's unfocused grey eyes turned to the speaking, and could see the faint outline of a women, covered head to toe, only her face visible for modesty's sake.

"Please, please don't hurt me..." Maeve whimpered as they pulled her forward once more.

"We're not gunna hurt you, love. This _will_ hurt, but not 'cause of us." The woman comforted in a matter-of-fact voice. Suddenly, Maeve was pushed down on something cool and soft.

* * *

><p>He hardly noticed when they were suddenly deep within the city, pushing back Lannister forces and capturing half of Golden Tooth. His back throbbed with pain, a warm bead of sweat—or maybe it was blood—trickled down his temple and his heartbeat drummed in his ears, a fearsome war song.<p>

He kicked away the wounded soldier, who had come at him with a mace, and looked amongst the quarreling bodies around him for that familiar streak of white.

"Ghost!?" he cried, his voice lost in the countless screams of ferocity and terror and the endless clangs of steel against steel. Jon's heart sank when he did not see him.

"Ahhhh!" the loud roar was not at all startling, but it drew his attention because the one screaming was also rushing at him with a sword. Jon lifted his sword instinctively, and deflected the blow, although not without difficulty.

* * *

><p>Her vision cleared as they pushed up her dress. She could see the gorgeous paint of a mural above her, dark blue paint representing the midnight sky, with seven painted figures circling the candleholder, a portrait of the night sky and the sun, with the gods mastering the greatest power of all: light. It was common for wealthy septs to have sky murals painted on the stone ceilings of their dorms.<p>

Maeve felt hands on her legs, prying them open and her heart leapt. Memories struck her like a blow from a fist; she remembered the sickening feeling of when rougher hands had yanked up her dress, and when a terrible weight had pressed down against her, trapping her, suffocating her. Maeve scrambled back up on her elbows, trying to push her skirt back down, but a sudden jolt of pain crashed back over her, freezing her movements. She felt something..._gush_ out of her, out onto the bed linens and coating her inner thighs.

The women pulled her back down on her back and spread her legs open, pushing up her dress without embarrassment or hesitation and without struggle from Maeve. She knelt on the bed, between the pregnant girl's legs and looked down to see how it was coming along. She saw blood.

Looking back up at the girl, whose face was screwed up in pain, she ordered, "Alright, push now, _push!"_

* * *

><p>A strange foreboding feeling suddenly pulled at Jon, the feeling of impending danger, of worry for the ones he could not see.<p>

When a man slashes his sword against someone, gets bloody, and nearly dies half a dozen times in battle, a strange frenzy grips him. He moves quicker, does not see the faces of the men he's killed...fire enters his blood, and won't let calmness take him until hours after the battle has been won. Jon had never had this feeling in the middle of battle before. It was weak as a whisper, but it commanded such attention from him.

Jon tried to ignore it, but the seed had been planted. He needed to see Robb, Ghost... Jon _needed_ to know they were safe.

He turned on his heel, searching for Ghost, and roared in frustration when he didn't see him. How could Ghost come back so suddenly and vanish after a moment? Jon's thoughts were once against halted when an axe came rushing past his head.

* * *

><p>"Yes! Good girl, now another!"<p>

Maeve screamed..._loudly_. Her nails shredded the bedclothes beneath her, her back arched and her head flung back against the pillows. _Gods help me... _

"_I can't!"_ Maeve screamed breathlessly, collapsing back on the pillows. "I can't, I can't do it!"

Propped up on her elbows she looked weakly at the septa kneeling between her legs—pleading her to help her, _make it stop_, to put an end to the pain already. She was afraid to look down, to look and see she had not moved along the _slightest_ little bit.

"_Yes_ you bloody well can! Push!"

* * *

><p>The feeling did not go away, no matter how many axes, swords and hammers were swung his way, that gnawing feeling kept up. Jon pressed forward with the rest of his brother's horde, the fighting Lannister soldiers diminishing with each street they took. The calming battle made it a little easier for Jon to search for his companion, but not by much.<p>

Jon's dark eyes darted around him, across the countless men and across the buildings. That damned feeling...it grew the longer he went without seeing Ghost, or Robb...he hated it. It was making him weak, vulnerable, unfocused. The last man who had come at him had gotten in a good swipe across Jon's side, and even through the boiled leather protecting his sides, Jon could feel the bruises form.

"Ghost!" Jon's gaze darted about, but this time he finally found the overly large figure of a wolf—his wolf—trotting up the steps to a grand temple, the stone shining even in the dim firelight, the orange glow bouncing off the strong marble pillars like gold. Jon frowned.

* * *

><p>"Almost, come on, come on, come on! I can see it!" Maeve lifted her head, clenched her jaw, and pushed her hardest, screaming between her clenched teeth...<p>

...and then suddenly the pressure was gone...

* * *

><p>Jon ran forward, weaving and dodging through thrashing bodies, hurrying towards Ghost. Direwolves were not dumb beasts; there was a reason for everything they did, much like humans. Ghost would not tuck himself away from battle without a reason, not when Jon called for him.<p>

He took the steps two at a time, and when he finally reached Ghost, reaching out to touch his pale fur, Jon looked to see what the direwolf was staring so intently at...and dropped his sword with a clatter.

There, huddled tightly against one of the stone pillars, tucked so closely to the stone she was all but invisible to the world, was _Arya_. Dirty, hair chopped away, obviously grown since he last saw her, but Jon would recognize that long face anywhere.

"Arya." He breathed. The small girl stared at him a moment longer, wide eyed and unbelieving, before she launched herself into her brothers arms, just like she used to.

* * *

><p>A cry that was not her own took up in the air, a soft wail, weak and helpless, and it took Maeve a long moment to realize who it was from.<p>

She opened her watery eyes and gasped, her racing heart stumbling a second in sheer amazement. A small little thing, an infant laid cradled in the older woman's arms, wet with blood and purple, wailing loudly in the cold air...so _tiny_. She couldn't believe what was happening.

Her mind went silent as she stared at the baby. She stared at its little arms, its little legs, the small body and the slightly pointed head which had a dusting of dark black hair, sticking to his head. Maeve wanted him in her arms, wanted it desperately, but she could not find her voice to demand it, still too enchanted by the whimpering newborn, which was still in the arms of the septa cleaning him off. She did not notice the violent, uncontrollable shaking in her legs, or the soft trickle of blood still seeping out of her.

And then, _finally_, after what felt like forever, they laid him on her chest wrapped up in a warm blanket, and she really got a good look at him, the thing that just came out of her.

"It's a boy." She faintly heard someone say, but the voice was far off and distant. And the world went silent. There was no war waging just outside these cold stone walls, no death, no time, no sound, nothing...just this wonderful warmth, engulfing them, protecting them from everything else in the world.

Maeve cradled her baby, stunned at how light he felt and at how comfortably he fit into her arms. What surprised her even more were the clear, alert eyes that stared back at her. _Blue_, she noted. Maeve stared back, studying those tiny features and imprinting them to her heart, hoping she never forgot this moment for as long as she lived.

She counted the tiny fingers and toes and when she took one of those hands in hers, and one tiny hand closed around her finger, the tears came finally. He was so tiny. So _fragile_. Months and months of discomfort and pain had brought her this little blessing, something that she needed as much as he needed her.

How could something this perfect have come from her? Maeve smiled brightly for the first time in months, and knew without doubt or guilt or shame that this had been worth _every second_ of pain, torment and guilt. She rubbed away the tear trailing down her nose, still smiling.

He would look like Jon, she realized suddenly, dimming her smile to only a grin. He had his black hair, the shape of his face, his long fingers, and while the baby's eyes would be bright like hers, they held something that reminded her of his father.

A morose feeling began to creep up into the warm joy of their world, and to stifle it, Maeve braved a touch to the soft head of the quiet baby. Gods he was so small, his head was so soft, and his hair was so thin and delicate. He was so...beautiful.

"Edrick." She whispered confidently, rocking her body back and forth, watching as those tiny eyes drifted shut. "That's your name. _Oh_...I love you so much. Oh, my sweet baby, I love you."

The world still turned, the war still raged like the hell-fires of the underworld, and she was alone with no one to help her take care of Edrick...but here in this tiny little world, her son safely tucked away in her arms, Maeve felt happy for first time in a long, _long_ time.

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><p><strong>Mother of god you will not believe how good it feels to get that out! :D please tell me what you think, just tell me...please, please, please please please?<strong>

**good, bad, ugly...etc**

**please please please review, I'm pretty unsure :( **


	22. Chapter 22: I Will Keep You Safe

**Holy...fucking...shit. Yes, I just swore, because I am so amazed! I got 30, count them, 30 reviews on chapter 21! :D It just makes me feel so good inside ;)**

**thank you guys soo so so so amazingly much for all your patience, and support, and now I am pleased to present the next installment of Vows! **

disclaimer: GRRM owns everything.

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><p><strong>Chapter 22: I Will Keep You Safe <strong>

Relief, joy and peace swelled within Jon all at once, intoxicating and wonderful. He had not known this in so long; it nearly brought him to his knees with the strength of it crushing down on him. Arya. His sister, his little sister who was almost as much a pariah as he, was here, in his arms, alive and safe. He never thought he'd see her again; either he would die in battle, or she would be forever lost to them—in hiding or dead. Finding her now, in the midst of all this chaos, was like going home after such a long time away. But suddenly, the sound rushed back to his ears as the girl pulled herself away, looking wildly up at her bastard brother with hardened eyes that had seen awful things.

"Jon, you need to help me! You need to help me!" Arya cried, her hands clenching at his arms, pulling him urgently towards the carved oak doors of the sept. He didn't hear Ghost snort beside him, nor did he see the way the dire-wolf's ear flicked up as he eyed the large doors. A familiar scent stuck his nose, which piqued his curiosity greatly.

Suddenly, Jon's soul lifting relief was slashed by half at the look on his half-sister's face. "What? What is it?" He thought the worst—the kind of things that would take his sister away again, right out of his hands after he'd only just found her, like another cruel joke from the gods he no longer trusted.

"Th-there's children in the sept, and women too. And there's gold and jewels in there too! If the soldiers come, they'll kill them all! _Jon please, help!"_ Her voice was rushed with the need to tell him everything in only a few short moments. Urgently, she pulled his arm towards the carved doors again. Jon could hear the whimpers of frightened children through the closed shutters and those doors.

Jon hesitated. _Stopped_ long enough to think. The city was almost lost; the sept was ripe for the taking by any desperate man with a spear in his hand. But he _needed_ to find his brother...he _needed_ to get Arya where he knew she would be safe, where no one would take her away again to be used against them. Those people in the sept were not his problem, not his family, a part of his reasoned. But he would despise himself all the more if he simply turned away from the ugly scene. It would be as though he'd played a part in the deed. There was nothing right about leaving innocent women and children to be abused and slaughtered.

He pulled his blade up from the stone floor, and held it tight, pushing away the ache in his bones and the burn in his lungs. The bastard boy's feet moved with new life towards those doors as quick as he could, one hand holding a bloodied sword, the other holding Arya's arm, to keep her close. In no time his gloved hands roughly shoved open the doors open, earning a barrage of frightened shrieks from the women cowering against the walls with their children.

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><p><em>His little hands are so strong<em>, Maeve thought as Edrick gripped her finger. Even as he drifted asleep, his hand held tight around the digit, like he was making sure she stayed with him. His father had done the same when he slept against her, his arms coiled around her and tightening when the cold stuck them. It didn't feel wrong to think of those times now—Edrick had come from them, those happy times with Jon had all led to the baby in her arms. Her heart felt _whole_ again, now as she stared at her baby—perhaps it would last, perhaps not, but she had a piece of Jon with her that no one could take away. Edrick let out a big yawn, and Maeve smiled down at him. He was so wonderful; she knew Jon would love him too, if he could see him—bastard or no. How could he not?

Maeve was rocking her sleeping baby when she heard a great crash just outside the door. Only wood splintering against stone made that sound, and only angry men broke open doors like that. The sound was so sudden, it brought her out of her sweet tranquility, and back into the harsh, ugly world with a startled jump.

Edrick was jerked awake, and suddenly the warm, comforting scent surrounding him, and the gentle arms of his mother, were small things compared to the bother of being denied precious sleep. A whimpery sound came from her boy, a sound that cut into her heart so quickly and deeply it surprised her. She wanted to take her baby away from this, to protect him from all the ugly sounds in the world—from wars, from cruel monarchs, and from murderers who held swords for a man they claimed to be the _true_ king.

"Shh, it's alright, mama's here..." Maeve hushed, rocking him gently as she had with Tobias a long time ago, but it wasn't gentle enough, because her son's fragile little head moved too roughly on her arm for her liking. He snorted and whimpered as Maeve cradled his head better, hushing him when she pulled him closer to her chest. Her steely eyes flashed to the door, hearing muted cried from beyond it.

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><p>As the wood splintered against the stone walls, the sharp smell of burning spices and oils struck his nose. Maeve had always smelled like that—as though the years had permanently absorbed the sharp aroma into her skin—and for just a second his focus was lost from the task at hand. He hated that—how old memories that were once so sweet and meaningful, had turned against him so bitterly, if only to taunt him for thinking he could ever have someone for himself. Would that he could banish them from thought completely, forget them, forget her, and take back whatever part of him she'd stolen when she was yanked away.<p>

The inside of the sept was large and wide and open, the roofing above them was high and curved with a large, circular window at the center and a seven pointed star painted in red around the window. There was another doorway directly across the entrance that led into the rest of the sept, a brazier burning partway between the doors. Burning torches lit along the marble walls, and seven stone figures stood along them, the firelight shining through the crystal bowls in their lifeless hands and along the walls brilliantly. At the figures' feet, dozens of women with time worn faces, and even more children of all ages crouched, praying fearfully for their lives. The tears on their cheeks and the wild look of fear in their eyes pulled at Jon, in a way, other men—battle hardened men—would call him soft for. The few men and women of the Faith he could see were at the feet of the Crone and the Father, praying silently, with an unflinching devotion Maeve had once possessed.

The crash, and the sight of a man in armour with a bloodied sword in his hand, made the feeble screech even louder, and flinch back roughly against the walls.

Ghost trotted in, his jaws still red, and his eyes studying his surroundings with far more intelligence than was due to a wild beast. The great animal was easily noticed beside Jon, and his presence momentarily struck the women and children dumb. At once, Arya rushed in, her feet quick and sure and steady as a cat's. The girl's keen blue eyes darted about to seek a means for escape, for the front entrance led into open battle, where anyone weaker was fair game. Jon turned away from their frightened faces to shove the door shut again, flicking the locks closed as he did so.

The marble was cold beneath Arya's fingers as she poked her head through the threshold which divided the front entrance of the sept from the rest of the temple. As she stared down the darkened corridor, she could vaguely see three separate shards of firelight, indicating three doorways. She looked the other way, and another three shards of light cracked through the darkness. She could hear whimpers of a baby, hushed voices of women, and the snap of a burning brazier. One of those six entryways, surely one led somewhere safe, she thought.

Ghost trotted forward, sniffing the air to catch the familiar scent of the little lioness that was round with a cub. He knew she was here, he could smell the sharp tang of her blood in their air, through the heady aroma of oils and spices. There was a need to find her, demanding and clear, and the animal didn't question it, only followed. His sharp ears heard the wail of a cub, through one of the doors and keenly, he dashed forward, sniffing at the door. The smell of blood grew stronger here, and through the wood, the wolf heard the gentle murmurs of the lioness and the gentle whimpers of a baby. The dire wolf gave a small whimper and clawed the door.

"_Come on! This way!"_ Arya hissed, looking back to the frightened civilians. No one so much as moved, eyeing her warily, ready to pounce or to flee. Sometimes prayers are answered in unexpected ways, so oddly that one does not accept or believe it, and no one thought a little girl dressed as a boy, and a young man with a dire-wolf stitched to his chest and one at his side, would be the ones to bring them to safety.

"If you don't follow her, the other soldiers that come won't be as kind!" Jon bellowed out from the doors. The women flinched, the children whimpered and clung to their mother's tightly, and no one showed any signs of moving for one long, endless moment. Jon growled in frustration and made ready to grab up a few and shove them down the passageway, when suddenly, a loud bang cut through the temple walls. The doors behind Jon jerked violently, a few locks keeping the men outside at bay.

"Come, come, come!" an old voice cried. Jon watched as one of the septa's stood from her place by the Crone and hobbled towards Arya. One woman raised her hand to touch the old creature's wrinkled hand as she passed, and at once, the old septa grasped it. "Hurry, dis way!" she pulled at the younger woman's arm insistently. The younger woman's eyes were wide and afraid, like a child looking up at her mother for guidance, and slowly, the woman stood, a little boy rising with her and clinging to her hips. Jon was relieved to see them move and disappear beyond the threshold. Almost at once, more women and children followed, running down the corridor after them.

His relief was short-lived, when another loud bang and a violent jerk behind him reminded him of the danger behind the doors.

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><p>Dread began to well up in Maeve as she helplessly rocked her son. It was the only thing she could do. She hugged Edrick close, when suddenly a strange scratchy sound filled the air, coming from the door. Holding her breath, ready to leap from the bed if she needed to, Maeve slowly turned her head to look at the door. The shadow under the crack was strange, and before she could question why, she saw the long nails of a...dog? What was a dog doing—?<p>

Suddenly another crash, more frightened shrieks, muffled shouts, and then feet running past the door. There was no time to question why there was a dog in the sept, scratching at this _particular_ door. The danger was great, the city was burning, and men were coming to kill them.

Her breath came short and rapid, fear dancing in her eyes like firelight. The terror brought on by her vulnerability tugged at old memories she had long since buried. Suddenly, Maeve felt like a child again, afraid and cowering in a corner at the sounds of war, unsure of what to do as they grew louder and closer. She didn't remember how she knew this fear, she hardly remembered how she survived past it, but she had, somehow. Through the help of others, no doubt. This time, however, she was alone; no one would come for her, no one would hold her hand, no one would pull her up...she was alone and her son needed her.

_Scratchscratchscratchscratch! _Sounded from the door.

Maeve looked down at her baby, her heart swelling with love, and aching with despair as the impending sense of helplessness grew. His eyes were only half open, his little hands were flexing against his chest (searching for his mother's fingers), and peeking out from the blanket wrapped around him, was the cord which had joined them, hastily cut by the septas who'd left them shortly after the birth. He wasn't crying or whimpering, but he cooed gently as she watched him quietly go to sleep.

Her son, her baby. Edrick.

He was so new, not even an hour old and already, his life was in danger. Danger from men who killed because they were _told_ to, from knights who killed the weak and innocent—_those who they were meant to protect!_—and all for a crown and a nice chair to sit in. Fury rose inside her, at herself, at the soldiers, at every man who called himself a _king_. Edrick was _hers_; she was mother to this perfect little boy, and no one would take him from her. She had to protect him, not wallow in her misery, or linger on the ghosts in her past.

Looking back at the door, Maeve closed her eyes and flung the blankets off of her legs, determination bursting from her heart. She scooted off the bed, cradling her son in one arm, biting back whimpers of pain the action garnered. Her baby would not fall to these greedy men. She would not let that happen, not in a thousand years.

She huffed as her bare feet reached the cold floor, the sweat still chilling her skin, and warm blood slowly drying on her thighs. She inched her legs forward to the bed post, every step painful and burning. She longed to be back on the bed, asleep under warm sheets with her son in her arms, not passing one moment to the next in fear. When her fingers touched the wooden post, her legs slackened, bringing her cheek against the pole, her son jolting once again into a distressed cry. The auburn haired girl hushed her baby, but it did nothing, Edrick continued to wail. Desperately, she looked for anything that may offer protection—a cupboard, a door she could slip through, something to hide behind—_anything_. But the room was small: a bed, a little desk and a chair was all that was afforded to whoever usually occupied it. Maeve wanted to scream in frustration...or in anguish.

Swallowing, the new mother pushed from the post, legs shaking and sore, and stumbled towards the desk. There could be something sharp there, something she could defend herself with if needed. Her weak legs faltered again half way to the desk, jarring her hip against its edge, clattering the pots and lamp about, and turning her son's cries into screams. It hurt to stand, and she was so tired...

The woman pushed it back, and took up one of the pots and smashed it down on the table, the shards exploding everywhere with a small cloud of powder.

Edrick's wailing made it hard to hear, but still she could discern the _scratchscratchscratch_ outside the door, and the loud_ bangs _that came from somewhere else in the sept_. _A long strand of auburn hair fell in her face asher deft fingers sifted through the powdery mess. It tickled her nose, but she ignored it as she pushed away the powder and drew up a small sharp blade of clay and held it tightly in her shaking hand. Her bleary eyes shifted back down to her son's red face, screwed up with terror and screaming, and Maeve began to cry.

_Gods,_ she prayed, _please let my son live past this day_. _Please_..._please..._

Her hip began to hurt where the edge of the table dug in, but she paid no mind as waited for the door to smash open, as she knew it would eventually, her palm beginning to bleed around the clay shard.

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><p>All those who thought they'd find untouchable safety in the sept were mistaken...there was no place a soldier's greedy fingers couldn't touch when they laid siege to a city. They desecrated the sept, a holy temple, without thought, slaughtering each other on the steps, crawling in through its windows and stealing gold and raping stray septa's in the far halls. Gods have mercy on the fallen.<p>

The front entryway was really the only safe place as Jon and Arya ushered more women and children out through the corridor. The other septon's and septa's left their post at their idols' feet, (although not without pause), and began to guide the common folk out of the sept.

Jonwas hurrying an old man and his granddaughter down the corridor, when another thud crashed behind him, but with it came the sound of wood splintering, the doors were finally beginning to give way to whatever they smashed against it. Jon's heart thundered in his ears, fear for his sister returning to the forefront in his mind. He drew his blade up and gripped it tight. He watched as another blow landed on the fragmenting door, this time feeling a cold brush of air on the hot skin of his neck and face. It wouldn't be long before that axe cut down the locks.

"Arya!" Jon called out to his little sister, backing away from the doors as his eyes scanned the entrance hall for her. The young girl in question appeared in the threshold where she'd led the others and blinked up at him worriedly. Jon Snow did not think, only acted. In an instant, he was racing towards her, another harsh thud echoing behind him as he went. When he reached her, his free hand shot out like a snake and locked around her forearm, hard and bruising. Her feet stumbled along as he pulled her away.

As Jon rounded the threshold, and prepared to make an escape with his sister at his side, a sharp distinctive sound reached his ears: a baby's cry echoing through the stone walls of that corridor. Horror cut through Jon like a knife and unconsciously, he jerked his head back in search of it. Had it been left behind by its mother, in the midst of all the madness? A flash of white caught his eye down in the opposite direction they were headed in. For a moment, in the dim light, he thought it was a phantom.

Ghost thrashed against the door, clawing and scratching at the barrier so aggressively, that he left long welts in the wood. He _needed_ to get to the female on the other side; she was weak, small and helpless with a mewling cub at her breast. The lions would rip her to shreds if they found her. He growled low in his throat as his claws dug deep into the wood.

Jon frowned, and turned back to his sister. He needed to get her somewhere safe, with her mother preferably, but the baby's cries were loud and incessant and Ghost seemed very eager to get at it—because he was hungry or because he was curious, Jon knew not. It would be so very easy to leave it, to pretend as though he hadn't heard the cry and flee with Arya in tow. He could choose to believe it was some imagining, or that it was the echoing of a far off babe in the midst of escape with its mother, but he knew the truth. That child was in one of those rooms, alone or not, and soldiers would either kill it or leave it to the cold to die. The thought was awful to even ponder.

He could go find it, but what would he do once he found it? What of Arya? He had no intention of losing her and setting out for an echo might cause just that. Robb's face flashed in his mind—his eyes hardened and aged, and then Lady Catelyn's. The woman walked with a thick air of sadness about her that even bothered Jon. How could she not be miserable? Her daughters held prisoner, her youngest son's home in Winterfell hundreds of leagues away. Seeing Arya would lift their spirits; this would give them new purpose and hope now that one Stark daughter had returned to them. Arya was a wolf, and the lone wolf dies, while a pack survives. But the babe...

As Jon sombrely prepared to turn away and take his sister to her mother, Arya had already decided and lurched forward in Ghosts' direction. Jon's grip on her arm kept her from sprinting forward without him. "Jon, _come on!"_ she barked, yanking her arm to bid him come. "It's a _baby!"_ Another piercing cry came from the babe, and suddenly, Jon's feet shuffled forward, his sister running fast at his side, his hand still tight around her arm.

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><p>Then it finally came—a crash so loud it made her shove back against the desk and grip the clay shard so tightly that blood dripped down her fingers and wrist. The young woman clutched her son closer, and rocked him a little in the hopes of calming him. Her eyes flashed up, seeing a figure cloaked in shadows darkening the doorway and a streak of pale fur speeding towards her.<p>

Maeve gasped and stared at the animal in fear, the bloodied jaws and size of the creature made her press closer to the desk in fear. But then it stopped right before her, staring up at her with familiar red eyes. The auburn haired girl watched the dire-wolf in confusion and wonder. What was he doing here? Would he protect her like before? She thought with a new found hope. Ghost was an impressive animal, strong and efficient. He had protected her for whatever reason those days on the road, sometimes catching small animals and bringing them to her to feed herself and her friends. She never knew why he stayed with her, but she hoped he would now. Eying his bloody snout, her lips tightened. He _was_ still a wild animal, she had to remember.

"Ghost?" she gasped. His red eyes broke from hers, and came forward a little, sniffing at the bundle in her arms. Whimpering she drew away. She'd seen Ghost attack; saw the strength his jaws possessed, and knew he could rip into her baby without even intending to. The dire-wolf paid no mind and came closer. Maeve thought of hitting the animal, of taking the shard in her hand and stabbing it into Ghosts' neck, but she couldn't. Ghost was calm now, and pain would make him an angry beast looking to kill. She held her breath as the dire-wolf nudged the small foot peeking out from the blankets with his cold nose. Edrick whined, clenching his toes and curling his leg away from Ghost.

A loud clatter drew her eyes up, and stole her breath away when she met the eyes of the man across from her. His eyes...those dark eyes she'd stared into so many times, that face she adored, that hair her son shared with him...Jon? No...No, it couldn't be. Her eyes were tricking her, surely. There was no way he was standing before her...none. She blinked...and there he remained. Her lips trembled and released a shuddering breath. Oh gods...this was a trick, a cruel jape, that's what it was...

He stumbled towards her, just one step, but when he stepped farther into the light and still remained Jon Snow, she gasped, and shifted Edrick in her arms.

"M...M-Maeve?" she heard him whisper. Maeve whimpered, her voice lodged in her throat under a painful lump. He stared at her, took in her face, her hair, her eyes...and then the infant in her hands, whimpering and snorting into the cold night air.

As Arya barked unheard pleas to hurry, and as Ghost licked at the child's small foot, Maeve hardly noticed the clay shard tumbling from her fingers and clattering to the floor.

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><p><strong>Hello my doves :D I can't tell you how good it feels to finally get this part done...<strong>

**I know it's been way way too long, wayyyy too long and I apologize. But now, I fear I'm going off to college :( and I don't know what I'm in for so I don't know how often I'll be able to update :'(**

**I must admit, I'm a little worried for this chapter, because it's been so long**

**so please, please please, review! REVIEW! REVIEW! **


	23. Chapter 23: Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

**Yes hello! :D**

**There are a great many reasons why this is so overdue, most are sad and very unpleasant...which killed my desire to write and so I've come out with this! **

**I OWN NOTHING BUT MY OWN IDEAS...don't steal them.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 23: Tomorrow Will Be Kinder <strong>

Maeve couldn't breathe. How could she when _he_ stood not three feet from her? So many times she told herself he was far from her in this life, and would go on living without her. Not dead, never dead. Just...far away. The thought was comforting in its own, more so than the bare idea of him just...being gone. During those long, lonely days before she'd been found by Tally and her father, she had liked to think that after the war, he would go home to Winterfell, un-maimed (obviously), find a good woman to make him happy, and have darling children and be happy and live until eighty (obviously). Any other scenario was awful.

So to see him here, not happy, but bloodied and battle frenzied, was as unsettling as it was wonderful. _Oh gods_, she thought, _why here? Why now? Why at all?_

Her thoughts came to an end with the fearful cry of the girlish boy at his side, and the sound of death breaking down the doors roared in her ears once more.

"Jon! _Hurry!"_ Arya screeched. She heard men's voices growing louder, echoing off the empty stone walls. Panic ignited inside her when Jon froze, the worst running through her head as his sword slipped from his fingers and tumbled to the ground. For just a second she thought blood would spurt from his mouth and through his neck, she'd find an arrow or a sword. But she found no such horror looking up at him, only a curious look she'd never seen on anyone before. He said something to her—or maybe it was the girl with the baby he spoken to?—something so quiet she couldn't hear him above the roar of the siege.

Her loud cry seemed to shake the girl with the baby out of her stupor, judging by the way she flinched back a little as the last of the sound was absorbed by the roar around them. Jon however, hardly moved. His hand didn't even twitch to retrieve his sword. Why had he dropped it? They would surely die if he did not have it in his hand. Why? The girl frowned, quickly looking back between Jon and the other girl. It couldn't be her, could it? Arya never recalled Jon having any real fancy for girls, even the stupid giggly ones boys seemed to like so much. All the girls flocked around Robb like a gaggle of geese. But as she looked back at her older brother, she thought—just for a second at least—she saw something that reminded her of the way her father once looked at her mother. Everything inside her ached at thinking of the life she once had, so happy and carefree.

Fear clenched around her heart anew as she heard more wood splinter under the axes. They had to leave. She had been on her own for too long, and father's words from long ago echoed in her head more everyday: _the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_. They had to survive. Her family had to be together again, they had to kill the Lannisters. She had to see her _mother_, she had to see _Robb_. She had to go home, and she wouldn't go without Jon.

Another violent crash seemed to shake the air as the doors began to give way under the axe and ram, the wood giving way and allowing killers to see through into the sept, eyes alight with the promise of women and riches. _"JON!"_Arya screamed again, her hands around his arm, desperately pulling at him, trying to get him to move. They found the girl and her baby, but now they all had to escape. But it was no good, he was stronger than she, and so he remained, frozen as stone, still staring at the girl and her baby, while the girl with the baby stared back.

Gritting her teeth, Arya moved in front of her brother, raised her hand and struck her elder brother as hard as she could across the face, her palm suddenly stinging and burning less than a second later.

The bastard gave a grunt that was more startled than pain filled, and finally tore his eyes away from the girl and her baby to look at his little sister with curious eyes.

"Come on! They're coming!" fearfully she yanked at his limp arm. Jon looked back at the girl and her baby, and then quick as a serpant, his hand reached down and retrieved his blade.

"Ghost," the direwolf's ears twitched, but he did not turn away from the girl. "Go. Tear them all to bits." Maeve's insides trembled at his deadly voice. Deep down she knew he was not the same, how could he be? Was the man she'd loved still there beneath that hard as bone exterior? Or had he gone, like that septa was?

Maeve swallowed dryly as the direwolf gave the tiny babe's foot a parting lick and dashed off to do as his master willed. Once she'd asked Jon how he'd managed to tame such a creature so it never bit at Allyria's children. _You can't tame a wild thing,_ he'd replied. She vaguely remembered how patient and gentle the wolf had been with her charges, how he never once tried to take a bite out of those bold and grabby children. It was clearer in her mind how he had been on the road, how he had torn apart those horrible, evil men and how he would sometimes bring her game to feed herself and her friends. Ghost was a good wolf, but he was still a wolf with a wild mind and sharp teeth and claws.

Jon looked back at the trembling girl, and held out his hand. "Come on." His voice was gruff and strained.

In her arms, Edrick whimpered, finally breaking Maeve from the stupor of having her former paramour just a few steps from her. Edrick. She must do what is best for him. She stared at Jon's hand a second longer, almost—no, _defiantly_—afraid to touch him for fear he would fade away to nothing, leaving her alone once more. If he stayed, every sweet, terrible, cursed memory would come flooding back with a vengeance, and all the trouble she'd gone through forcing herself to believe he was happy somewhere would have been for nothing. But murderers and rapers were coming, the city was probably burning and she was weak and torn from the birth. She couldn't properly protect her son, not like this.

But Jon would protect them, she knew he would. Even if he hated her for whatever humiliation their outing had brought him after she was sent away in disgrace, he was not cruel. She couldn't ever imagine him being cruel, especially not to a child. But if he would shun her afterward was another story. He did despise the circumstances of his birth so...would he despise the circumstances of her child's birth?

So she reached out, and Jon's bloodied glove clenched tight around her wounded palm, but she hardly felt the pain. She'd just given birth; she doubted a sliced open palm was going to be much problem to her.

Quickly she recalled how tired she was, how heavy her feet were as he pulled her along out of the room. A trickle of blood smeared on the inside of her thighs, drying quickly in the cold air as an awful ache settled between her legs. She had to keep up if she had hope of survival. Tally and the others had abandoned her when she couldn't keep up, and if Jon did, this time there would be no septas to take her in. She moved her legs along. She was so easy to abandon it seemed; she was cumbersome, a liability, but Jon...for a long time Jon had been her heart, even when she'd denied it to the high heavens during the day and snuck away to him at night. She hadn't been pleasant a good deal of the time and yet Jon had remained with her, even at a distance as she had still been a septa then. They'd somehow found love in each other, (a strange feeling), even though feeling as they did was a betrayal to everything they'd stood for before. They burned some bridges together, and so there was little thought in her heart that Jon would willingly abandon her now. Not until he found her safety at least.

Maeve saw the girl's back as she dashed out of the room, and just for a second, she wondered who she was and why she'd stayed with Jon when she could have run. They rounded the door immediately behind the girl, the sound of splintering wood and the foreboding thuds of the axes cutting it down made louder out in the hall. Edrick gave another disgruntled cry, but it was nearly lost in the noise. They kept moving, the girl moving swiftly past the threshold leading to the front entrance and then to the end of the corridor.

Suddenly an agonized scream cut through the air like a blade, but she and Jon did not stop to find the source. Yet as they ushered themselves past the corridor which led into the main vestibule, she spied Ghost before the half crumbled wooden doors, a man's severed arm between his jaws. Maeve gasped, eyes widening at the horrific display. To think just moments ago, that same beast was sniffing at her son's tiny foot. Ghost had become wilder in their time apart, or had he always been like that?

Jon pulled her along, never glancing at the ugly scene as they passed it, never looking back at her. Her arm began to hurt as it remained curled under Edrick, but there was nothing to be done about it. If she found a stretch of fabric she could strap him to her chest.

Endless halls they'd twisted and turned around, a grand catacomb that led to countless rooms filled with pretty things and chambers where septons and septa's laid their heads at night. She grew up in something far below this, with less gold and silver, and only seven stone statues in the entire compound, but it had been just as windy and twisty as this one. When she and the other children were free of lessons and chores, sometimes the old ones would let them some play time. Hide-and-seek was their favorite, but it was always hard to determine a seeker. The winner won the seeker's share of fruit next meal time...

It seemed endless, always another turn, always another dead end, like a horrible, deadly maze. Twice they'd had to turn back, a mob of looting soldiers stopping their progress and giving them little choice but to turn back and find another way. Her legs shook like leaves in a breeze, and every step was painful. She was so weary, she only wanted to stop and lie down a while, to be with her son in the peace he'd brought her the first moment she had seen him. But it could not be, not now at least. They had to find safety first.

Her poor little one was terrified by every loud crash and every scream that echoed off the walls. To make it worse, he was probably hungry, and cold, since he was only shielded by a rather thin bundle of cloth and one of her arms. Her heart ached for him, and she tried to move her feet faster to keep up with Jon.

Never once did Jon look back at her; he turned back only to see if they were spotted or followed, but never once did he look at _her_. It faintly pulled at the still-healing wound to her heart. He must hate her—she carried his son and he hated her for it. If she were not so preoccupied, she might have cried. While he seemed to have gotten enough of a look earlier back in that dim room, she could not seem to _stop_ looking at him. His dark curls, the curve of his cheek and the point of his chin, all called to her from days long past. Such a sight she'd never thought to see again, and here it was in the worst way imaginable. But he never let go of her hand, not for one second and for that she was thankful.

Suddenly Jon halted, so abruptly that her sluggish feet did not stop in time and she bumped her cheek against the cold, blood spattered armour of his shoulder. It must have been the third time already since they'd begun their decent into the bowels of the temple, and she was half sure she would have a bruise on her cheek to match the one that Lannister sod had given her more than a week before. It was fading now, only visible in the harsh light of day, but she remembered the ugly purple it had coloured to. _Tyrek Lannister_...she remembered his face, and wished to see it no longer, but it remained clear in her mind. Something about the horrible, drunken prick drew her attention, reminded her of something ugly and for the life of her, she could not turn the memory of his glassy eyes away.

Jon tensed as Arya soundlessly scampered ahead, her feet as nimble and quick as a cat. He'd heard the trample of feet and cries that were far too close. He didn't like that his sister went ahead; she was his sister, _he_ had to protect _her_. But Maeve had his hand and a baby in her arms, and he could not find it in him to release her hand to scout ahead himself. And Arya moved as quickly and silently as any shadow, scouting out safe passages and to darting back to them, to tell them to come or hide. They hadn't been spotted yet.

Maeve dared to lean her cheek against the cold plates of his shoulder as the girl scurried ahead once again, just for a second, allowing herself a rest. Jon heard her panting breath, and felt the gentle pressure of her against his shoulder, and he turned his head to look at her, only catching the sight of her auburn hair before he heard Arya hiss, "Hide", amidst the growing rhythmic _thud-thud-thud_ of running men.

Almost out of nowhere, Maeve was thrust out of her momentary languor as Jon sharply moved away to turn and pull her back. Her stiffened fingers curled tighter around Edrick as Jon pulled them back around down the way they just came. There was a hallway cutting through this corridor, creating an intersection they could hide themselves in as the soldiers passed. The corridor was long and relatively dark; most of the torches had fallen from the walls and guttered out on the floors, so if someone did pass, there was a good chance he wouldn't see them. Still, chance could never be relied on.

Jon released her hand finally, only to raise it again to wrap around her arm, guiding her into the halls of the intersecting corridor. He didn't remain dutifully by her side, and when he pulled away to turn back to the intersecting corridor, she was not surprised. He had to be vigilant, he had to be ready if one of those soldiers suddenly decided to explore down this hall.

Maeve leaned against the wall beside Jon, breathing heavily as though she'd run farther than she did. She took the brief moment to look down at her son, who had somehow managed to doze off in the small moment of quiet. She adjusted the thin cloth around him, tightening it and making sure his arms and legs were shielded from the harsh cold.

Maeve didn't notice how Jon's grip on his sword relaxed as the soldiers passed through the forward corridor. She didn't notice how he turned to look at her, finally noticing how exhausted she was. Her face was flushed, her breasts heaved with heavy breath, the hands which held her child were darkened by blood and...he looked down at her dress...she was bleeding. Jon's eyes widened in horror as the horribly large red stain on the skirt of her dress came to view, fear flashing through him as he looked back up at her face. She looked unaware to the obvious danger she was in; Seven Hells she even smiled at the baby! Gods, he had to get her out of here, he had to find someone to make her well again. She had to be alright, she had to. She couldn't die, not like this, he wouldn't...he couldn't let that happen, not now, not when he'd just found her again. He couldn't stand to imagine it.

"Give it to Arya." He heard himself say in a voice gruff with resolve.

"What?" both his sister and former lover sounded with bewilderment.

"Give the baby to her—"

"W-what? No! W-what if she drops—" Maeve protested, clutching the child closer and moving away on her shaky legs.

"You're exhausted and bleeding. You're going to collapse, and if you don't give it to her, you'll hurt it."

Arya seemed to understand now, and added, "I won't drop him. You're weak, we need to move."

"I can do it. N-no. I-it's nothing, it's natural to bleed—" Her protest was weak as Arya stepped forward and suddenly took the baby from Maeve's weak arms. "Give him back!" the auburn haired girl screeched, almost launching at the younger girl before Jon grabbed her round the middle.

"It's alright. Stop it. Stop!" he growled when she tried to wriggle free of him to get to Arya. His sister stood a few feet away, her arms carefully closed around the stirring child, looking a bit surprised at her brother's..._familiarity_ with the girl. Arya was no fool, there was something here she was not privy to and she wanted to know what. But the older girl looked ready to cry, starting at her baby as though Arya was taking him away forever, and she chose to leave it be...for now.

Her dirty, feeble hands pushed at Jon's but Jon wouldn't let up. "You'll get him back, understand? We need somewhere safe, a healer. Help me find one, and Arya will give him back." Jon knew it was horrible to use the child against her like this, but he only wanted to reason with her.

Suddenly, he was very aware that she was in his arms again after what felt like years. She wasn't as soft as she had been—he could feel the ridge of her ribs rubbing against his armoured arm, but her belly felt just a bit swollen, although he could feel the point of her hip bones under his hand. He longed to relish in this, to let it go on and on, and let himself forget the last long months. But he couldn't, and he doubted he ever could. Things had changed; he had changed, and it was obvious by how she clawed for the infant that Maeve had changed. When the frenzy of battle was over, he would see in the telling light of day how much one moment of Theon Greyjoy seeing them had changed their lives so entirely.

Maeve sniffled, her feeble fists slowing their pathetic assault on Jon's arms and hands. Edrick felt so far away in that girl's arms, and he didn't even seem to notice his mother's tumult. She almost wished he had, just so Jon could see he needed her like she needed him. But the girl who took her child from her seemed steady enough, holding Edrick securely to her without a tremble in her hands. Her arms were so tired...with that Maeve gave up; slackening in Jon's arms as the younger girl tentatively stepped forward, Edrick's small arms wriggling against his chest, half awake with the loud scuffling of his mother and his stranger father.

Slowly, Jon loosened his hold on her, releasing her and pulling away from her. He saw her tremble, her head falling forward and allowing the long, tangled mass of auburn hair to hide her frustrated tears from these two virtual strangers. Without thinking, Jon raised his hand, and bringing it to her bony shoulder. His thumb immediately began to rub. Maeve looked up, surprised by the...intimacy of the gesture. No one—not Tally, not the old stable hand Hamal, not Gin, not anyone...no one had touched her so softly for such a long, long time. "When it's safe." He promised.

_When it's safe_, Maeve thought angrily. When was anything ever safe? And when she somehow managed to find somewhere safe, it was taken away again. Jon pulled his hand away then, not wanting to touch her for too long. They needed to find somewhere safe, he needed to find her a maester and he couldn't allow himself to marvel in the sheer wonder of having her here with him after what felt like years apart.

Then they were moving again, Jon keeping Maeve from falling behind with one hand, and Arya holding the baby. After several instances with Arya moving too far ahead for Maeve's comfort, the younger girl grudgingly kept closer to the elder two so the auburn haired girl could keep a better eye on her baby. Maeve's arms didn't hurt so much anymore, but the other girl holding the baby did nothing to alleviate the pain in hips, legs and womanhood. _When it's safe,_ she thought, _when it's safe it will be alright, when it's safe, I can rest_. Of all the times Edrick could have come, of all the times the gods could have sent him to her, he had to come in the middle of a war. One day, she might smile at the dark humour, but not for a very long time. They passed countless rooms where safety could be promised, but never once stopped to see if it was possible to remain there. Maeve didn't want to either; she just wanted to get out of this horrible place, where it was nearly completely safe so she could take Edrick back again.

After what felt like an age, a gentle breeze accompanied by the distant sounds of men dying flittered down the hall they currently sped down. The outside world called and offered both safety and threatened death, but at least it offered something more than what lay in the sept. They moved faster, turning one more corner, bare feet and booted sliding against the smooth stones, and there it was, a small doorway that led into the stable yards where the livestock owned by the sept were kept. The first thing Maeve noticed was the smell. Smoke hung heavy in the air, thick and dark, permeating through the small entryway and growing stronger as they jerked to a stop at the opening.

The lifeless bodies of cows and pigs lay strewn about the stable pen. Oh the poor creatures, Maeve thought, too exhausted to think much else. For just a short moment, the bloodied girl leaned against the arched doorway, pulling her hand out of Jon's to clutch the wall, her sweaty forehead chilling on the cold stone and her breath just barely visible in the smoky air.

"Come on." Jon grumbled, grabbing at Maeve's arm again and pulling her along.

The air outside was no longer cold with the fires currently destroying the shops and homes of Golden Tooth. Maeve could taste smoke on her tongue as she gasped, and distantly, she thought to cover her son's mouth so he wouldn't breathe in the foul smoke, but then she remembered he wasn't in her arms. Who had him—oh yes! That girl did.

Wet mud squished beneath their feet, between Maeve's toes, and splattered as they sprinted past burning buildings and dodged wayward people. There were people everywhere, frightened or ravenous, fire everywhere, and Jon could almost taste the fear in the air with the smoke. For just a moment he had to admire the enormity of the destruction and chaos around them, huge and concentrated as it was, in what was once a prominent city, known to all of Westeros for being one of the few keys to the West. Come morning, Jon doubted it would ever hold much worth for many years to come. Shops burned, horses ran wild in panic without a rider to calm them, bodies lay on the ground without care, and those who still lived tried to kill each other. It was the ugliest and lowest point anything could ever reach, where things which took years to build up, crumbled with a jarring blow. The horror they saw now was confined to the back alleys, and Jon knew if he was fool enough to dare the main streets, they would be separated again and more than likely maimed or killed before they could find one another again.

But even as there were fewer soldiers in these narrow alleys, there seemed to be no a safe place: not a deserted shop that was not burning or being looted, nor dark private corner or crevice. Everything was gutted, laid bare. But still, Golden Tooth was a large city, and there must be a hidden haven somewhere, anywhere. He just had to find it.

Just as they dodged another frightened horse, he felt his arm jerk before he heard Maeve cry out in pain, falling to her knees finally after running for far too long. Her hand reached out to catch herself, and she was thankful that boyish girl had taken Edrick when she had. The pain pulsing through her legs suddenly flared to life, but it had hardly started when suddenly, Jon pulled her arm roughly, tugging her up to her feet as her legs shook beneath her bloodied skirt. An old part of her wanted to snap at him for being so rough with her, but she couldn't find the words with the ache in her knees and the exhausted burn in her lungs. She prepared to drag her feet again in a slow run, but then there was a quick flash of Jon's sword falling to the ground, and suddenly her feet were gone from under her, the backs of her knees curled around one of Jon's arms.

"What are—" she managed to gasp before he began to move again, jerking her around in his arms as he rushed forward. She was tense against him; the jagged bits of his armour were painful against her soft body. This wasn't right, he had to put her down; she could run herself...she didn't need him. But deep down she knew she did. She needed him, in more ways than one, and she wished she didn't. Need led to hurt. She would stumble, fall, and hurt herself...so who would fix her? Did Jon know how anymore? Or would he even want to?

But her hands did not fight him, and instead clung to him in some horribly trusting way. He was very comfortable compared to the tired soreness in her legs, and how alluring sleep was...

Jon ignored the pain in his arms and side as he held his former lover. He ignored the way his stomach ached with the familiarity of her body against his, he ignored the flip his heart gave, ignored how slight she felt to him. He remembered, then, every time he'd held her and wished secretly for the rest of the world to fade away, leaving only the two of them, without obligation or care.

He remembered the first time he'd seen her, _truly_ seen her. He'd gone to the river to fill his water skin, and there she'd been, nearly bare but for the shift she'd worn, hair damp and wild. Her eyes were young—startled and afraid—but he realized she was far young than others in her position. Suddenly he wanted to know why, why had she taken vows women twice her age took? She'd been bathing, and Jon's eyes immediately noticed the curve of her breasts before she'd hidden them from view with her discarded dress. His heart sped up as he watched a gentle blush rise from beneath her hands covering her bosom, up through that graceful neck and to her cheeks. It had barely been a moment, but it felt like longer as he took in all these minimal details, and then he met her startled eyes once more. Jon reeled back, not daring to look at anything but her face. He stuttered a pathetic apology and retreated back to the camp, deciding better to fill his water skin with a bit of diluted wine instead.

Jon kept that memory; he didn't want to forget it although perhaps it would have been better if he had. When they'd been found out and disgraced, Jon locked those memories away, refusing to accept what brief, small comfort they'd offered. Where he was miserable, he'd found relief in the arms of some tavern wench, whose name he could not recall. It had worked; he'd lost himself in the sweet scent of a woman, in her warm, soft body and all the pleasures the gods had blessed upon them. He saw where it would lead him, and feared what kind of man he would turn into. Whoremonger, drunkard, man without honour, disgrace, embarrassment...so he'd never sought out another woman after, although it probably made him more than a bit prickly. It was not simply his loyalty to Maeve which prevented him from bedding another woman, but also his own fear that the ease he found in a woman's arms would become a necessity.

He would _not_ become what people had always expected him to be. He would be the man his father had raised him to be.

A frantic scream cut through the air, and Jon felt ashamed for having delved too deep into his memories when the scene before him was so horrid. He jerked to a stop as a woman darted out in front of him, her shoulder bloodied and her eyes teary. Arya still hurried ahead of him, and Jon growled as he rushed to keep up with her. If he lost her in the crowd he would never forgive himself. He only just found his sister—Arya, who had never treated him, any different from Robb or Bran; he had given her her first sword just before she left for King's Landing and he for the Wall. Gods knew what kind of hell she'd gone through to make it back to them and now it was his turn to carry the weight and bring her back to her mother. And the small bundle she held was Maeve's...she'd despise him if he lost sight of Arya and her little one.

She wasn't very far ahead, and it was easy enough to reach her, but that was only because she'd paused to frown curiously at the set of buildings before her. The street was relatively untouched, although fires burned all around, and people and animals fled and screamed and died. This street, they would later find, was at one of the crevices of the valley city, built against the mountain wall and almost completely ignored by soldiers. Arya could see it, and her heart elated in hope as she eyed the little fabric shop set between a large tannery and bakery.

"Jon! Jon! Look!" Arya suddenly cried out as Jon reached her. She did not look away from her find, afraid that if she looked away, it would disappear in flames. The baby suddenly let out a scream, and Arya shot a fearful look down at it. She didn't know anything about babies really, and she was anxious to give this one back to his mother.

With that in mind, Arya rushed ahead towards safety, the motion making the baby cry louder. She heard Jon call out for her, and quickly she called back for him just as she reached the little shop. She slammed against the front end of the shop, and the baby hiccupped and continued screaming, her heart thundering loudly in her ears. She began to panic a little, fearful thoughts blooming in her mind as quickly as weeds in a garden. What if she'd hurt it? She didn't want to be responsible for the hurt of a helpless little baby! Worriedly, she looked up in search of Jon, hoping he would know what to do with the baby and at once she saw him, running towards her, the girl in his arms and no sword. Arya paled.

What...? How could he? How _could_ he!?

"_What did you do!_" she screamed as he reached her. "How could—_dolt! _You'll get us—we can't—!" Jon did not seem to have heard her, and proceeded to prod at the door handle, which was difficult with the limp woman in his arms. For a moment, Arya resented her; if she could not walk, Jon could have left her, he should not have abandoned his sword; but as one of the baby's arms reached up into the air, shame and horror at thinking such an awful thought struck her in the chest. The woman, for however much of a hindrance, had a baby that needed her. Without much more thought, Arya wormed on arm out from around the baby, gripped the door handle and shoved it open with one rough jerk.

The air still smelled of boiled vegetables and spices from the missing occupants' supper, and it was pleasantly warm. Still, the smell of smoke was inescapable, as was the sounds of screaming and sword against sword. On the left, rolls and rolls of fabric were piled against the wall, from floor to ceiling. In the right corner were a spinning wheel and the merchants desk was at the center of the room, and atop it sat an array of sewing supplies.

"Jon!" Arya cried out again, the small room making her voice sound thunderous. Even the baby's cries could not compare to his sister's furious yell. He looked back at her, seeing she had pressed herself against the wall with the rolls of fabric. Her face was red with either fury or exertion, he could not tell, but her voice trembled tumultuously when she spoke. "How could you drop your sword? I-I—"

"Arya, get the door." He cut her off easily. In his arms Maeve mumbled what sounded like a name, but he could not tell whose it was. With a huff, Arya did as she was bid, closing the door with a quiet creak. Jon looked down at the woman in his arms, finding she'd finally given into her exhaustion and laid her head against his shoulder, her hands slipping from their grip on his shoulder and armour, to rest limply against her bosom, but her eyes were open, and alert.

Jon could almost panic, she was quite pale, and it seemed she rested too peacefully for his liking, but he assured himself she was only exhausted. After all...he cast a look at Arya who sat quietly against the wall of fabric the baby in her arms quietening but still fussing...Maeve had a baby. She _must_ have, why else would she be so bloody exhausted and have an infant with his cord still attached with her. Jon knew not what to do with the thought.

"Maeve," he murmured gently. Her head rose to look at him, and Jon held his breath a moment. She was still as gorgeous as he remembered her to be. As he dreamed her to be. His stomach ached. "We're safe."

At once she was squirming to get out of his arms. "Edrick?" she murmured, louder this time so Jon could hear. Gently, he set her down on her bare, dirty feet, his arms aching in relief. "Edrick!?" she cried, looking wildly for the baby.

"_Shh!" _Arya hissed from her spot on the floor. Maeve's eyes lit up when she spied the squirming bundle in her arms, swiftly moving her feet forward. She seemed a tad steadier since the last time she'd moved, and Jon supposed the short rest and the promise of holding the baby again must have renewed her energy.

"Give him to me." She croaked hoarsely. _Him. Him. A boy. A son. A son called Edrick. _Jon let the idea remain a moment, before silently adding,_ Maeve has a son called Edrick_. Jon's heart throbbed.

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><p><strong>please review, please oh please. I worked long and hard on this! :D<strong>


	24. Chapter 24: Betrayal

**HELLO My darlings! :D**

**With my struggles to get the next chapter of Price of our Sins out, my love of Vows was reawakened :D I also looked back and reassessed my older chapters, and remembered what I was aiming for before all my work was lost on my first hard drives :D**

THank you all sooooo sooo soooooo much for all your support! I mean wow! 24 reviews! I love you so much :D

I own didly. As I've said. Numerous times.

please review! show me some lovin

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 24: Say Something<strong>

Jon was as moveable as a stone statue, refusing the sweet lure rest in one of the two bedrolls they'd found in the loft above the shop. He refused the bread and smoked meat the girl-who-didn't-look-like-a-girl had found in the shop. He refused to even allow Maeve to remove his armour to inspect the wound to his torso that troubled him so. The way he refused to look at her, made her reconsider even attempting to touch him.

He only sat uncomfortably on the floor and watched out the loft's one window, his eyes peeking over the edge, wary of the danger still outside the little shop's walls.

Regardless of what he wanted, the younger girl saved him a hefty bit of bread and meat for him, which made Maeve's empty feeling belly gurgle with lust. The girl unrolled one of the bedrolls and made up a comfy looking nest just beside Jon, unfurling rolls of soft linens and velvets stored against the walls of the loft, and assorting it into a cozy little bed.

Jon seemed to know the other girl; the way he looked at her with clear recognition and affection in his eyes was impossible to miss. They spoke softly to one another, so lowly Maeve could not hear as she unrolled her own bedroll far across the room—just opposite to Jon and the girl—and laid her son down. If they did not want her to hear their plans, then she wouldn't. Part of her didn't _want_ to hear; if they were planning to leave her soon she didn't want to know when.

So she did what she wanted to do: study her little boy.

Sweet little Edrick squirmed a little on the cold fabric and gave a unhappy whine, and his withered mother hurriedly reached for a folded up bit of embroidered green linen, shaking it out roughly and wrapping her son in it. She hoped he was warmer. After she slept, she wanted to find some cotton to make up clouts for him, and a dress to change out of this disgusting bloodied one to gain some modesty.

She held her boy close as she settled down on the bedroll, falling back against the rolled up stretches of fabric on the wall behind her, a soft blanket draped over her sore legs. It was almost peaceful here, laid up in the soft bedroll and surrounded by warm fabrics...safe for the moment, with her little boy safe in her arms. Since he first entered the world, Maeve was able to allow herself to fully immerse herself in his tiny features, rubbing her dirty fingers up and down his tiny arm. He slept now, and Maeve hoped he did not wake until he wanted to. His tiny mouth was puckered as his head rested against her bosom, listening to the steady thrum of her heart as he slept, his small little hand gently clenching at her breast.

He was so beautiful. More enchanting than anything she'd known in her life.

He would need to eat soon, she realized. She had no notion as to how the act of feeding an infant was done, but how difficult could it be? Animals could do it. Still, she did not relish in the idea that she would have an audience of two, who would see every bumble and slip she made. Although she much preferred that awkward situation to being alone.

What felt like hours passed them by, eventless and quiet, but filled to the brim with things which needed saying, making time drag on like a boulder chained to a man's ankle. The girl had curled up and fallen asleep, pressed close enough that she could probably feel every gentle intake of breath from Jon.

Speaking would shatter this awkward limbo they resided in, and would allow the flood to come in. In some ways she preferred this silence; it was safe, and she could almost believe the man across from her was not her former lover and father of her son. She could pretend he would not hurt her when he left her again, she could pretend that being without this _particular_ man just across from her had not laid like a stone over her heart. It didn't hurt so much to act like he was just another soldier.

But once her son was asleep, and it was quiet, her eyes could not resist the urge to look at him. She began at his feet, clothed in dirty black boots, one leg drawn up while the other lay lazily out in front of him. She remembered all the times they'd dozed off together, only to wake a short time later with one of those legs flung over hers. She'd teased him about it; for a man as serious and sullen as he during the day, it was surprising that he would be so affectionate by night.

Next was his torso, plated with fine armour, bloodied and scratched and dented by the blows of hammer and mace and blade, the risen image of a direwolf head faintly visible on the iron despite the dim light.

Resting on his drawn up knee, was his arm, his hand ungloved and loose, all five fingers present, all intact and straight and long as ever. Those fingers had once stroked her back, brushed away her hair, and touched her in other ways so sweet and wanting that a man would only do to his lady.

The wound on his side was not evident from this angle, but if he stood, and turned, she would be able to see the blood over his chain mail. The last time she'd seen him, he'd had the same hurts—he'd come back to her bloodied and in pain, but he'd taken her anyway. He'd loved her against a tree, held her tight against him and she'd told him the first time how deeply it would cut her if he came back to her maimed or not at all. The day he'd planted Edrick inside her, was also the last time she'd expected to see him.

Maeve blinked, those memories stunning her a moment with their clarity. She took in a deep breath and finally brought her eyes to his face, finally able to study him thoroughly.

His sweet face was changed—no less pleasing to the eye, but mature, hardened. No one could mistake him for a boy again. She spied a small scar along his cheek and a dried, smeared trickle of blood to the side of his forehead. His black curls had grown out a little and absently, she wondered if her son would have his curls. She hoped he did. However Jon was steely, hardened and changed—she could see it in his face.

But the burning need to ask him _how_, how was he here, and _why_, why had he let her go, scorched the tip of her tongue. She had to ask, she had to speak. Seven hells, she held his son in her arms! There was no possible way she could hold her tongue any longer.

"Jon." She whispered his name sweet and heavy on her lips. So foreign. His head turned a little, but then stopped and returned his eyes out the window. As though he were about to look at her, but thought better of it. She ignored the way her heart ached at that. "H-how are you here?" her voice was small and pathetic, but in the stillness of the clothing shop, it was well heard.

The quiet was all that answered. She clenched her teeth, and was about to ask again, when he answered. "You need a healer." She frowned. "It doesn't matter how I got here. You need a healer, soon before...before childbed fever sets in."

She licked her lips. He spoke in a calm way, as though he were talking to just another woman. "I've no need of one. A bath, fresh clothes, and some rest will suffice."

His head spun around to glare at her, his eyes hard and stern. "Vows of poverty do not have hold over you any longer." His eyes flashed over her. She flinched, his words as sharp and burning as the lash of a whip. It did not soften him. "You're _bleeding_. The," he hesitated, eyes flashing down to the bundle in her arms. "The babe, it needs to be looked at. We need to be sure it's healthy."

"_He_. _His_ name is Edrick. And he is. He's strong."

"Fine, _Edrick_, needs to be looked at. Same with you." He hissed. _Edrick_, he thought with approval. _A good, fine name. A strong one. _

The auburn haired girl sighed in dismay. "I don't want to fight," she whispered tiredly. "I told you, I am _fine_. I've no need of a healer, nor does he. And if we did, _where_ would you find one? The streets are burning. People are out there killing each other." Her voice was hard and factual, months of bitterness allowing her to spit out venom without even intending to. She thought she might feel guilty for this, but she did not.

"Have you _ever_ birthed a baby before?" he frowned at her so incredulously that Maeve knew he was truly asking her. It burned. The question was as painful as though he'd just outright called her a whore. She'd thought he loved her, at least before the world shamed them for it. Had the shame of loving her turned him hateful? But, perhaps, he really was curios and not only looking to hurt her. After all, girls as young as fourteen could have children, and she was eighteen when they met. It could be, he believed her virtue was nonexistent when he first had her, added to the fact that she attempted to sound like she knew what she was talking about. Still, his doubt of her innocence irked her.

"No." She answered with a sharp glare. Jon did not flinch and continued to stare hard at her.

"Then you cannot be sure. I'll find one as soon as the looters diverse. By morning they'll be hiding away in their holes—"

"And all that will be left is the killers." She provided. There was a long quiet pause, and her brows pinched together in fear, eyes widening suddenly she lost much of the sternness that made her seem twice her age. Suddenly she was Maeve. _His_ Maeve. The woman he'd known, the one he loved. "You would leave me, _again_?" Her voice broke, and tears began to form in her eyes at the thought.

His mouth tightened, and he sat a little straighter. "I never left you at all." He spoke lowly. The scars on his back burned as he thought back to the day she'd left. When she left Robb's tent to be with the other members of the Faith, he and Robb talked further, unaware that as they spoke of political agendas, Maeve was being paraded through camp from the sept tent to a horse in her shredded dress. As they spoke, Robb explained that some men thought him taking too many liberties: to dishonour his vows to the Night's Watch and escape punishment from his newly royal brother, to become one of Robb's generals and advisors, and then to dishonour a _septa_...the men felt that Jon should be made an example of.

So Jon was whipped, his back thrashed until he was bloody.

And while he lay up in agony and self loathing, a squire arrived to feed him milk of the poppy, and Jon had inquired about Maeve, half delirious with pain. At hearing the news, he remembered hoping that the squire had told him false as the soporiferous poppy milk took him away.

Maeve blinked, her tears falling and she hurriedly looked away, wiping the horrid little drops away with her fingers. She felt very heavy, and she looked away from him. He _did_ leave her, he _let_ her be sent away, he didn't fight for her...Had he even loved her? Thinking you loved someone and _actually_ loving someone so were two dissimilar things. Had they been blinded by the beauty of one another? Had the pleasure they discovered in one another's embrace clouded their judgement? Together, they were free to just be a man and woman, two people who were together by _choice_ rather than necessity or order. Had this tiny semblance of freedom been mistaken for love? Her heart throbbed, as though a pin were going through it. It would be a horrid, _horrid_ thing to have lost all that she had, for nothing more than a child's fancy.

But it had _felt_ real. The way he looked at her was real. The way he'd vowed to love her and be with her always was real. The way she'd felt about him, the way she kissed him, the way she'd given her virtue to him, _that_ was real.

But he'd given her up so easily, and she'd been pregnant. _That_ was real too.

The quiet stretched out between them again, for how long she did not know, but that girl curled up against him shifted once or twice. She wanted to ask him who she was and what she meant to him, but she thought it would only ignite further tension, and she was too damn tired to argue any longer.

"Who gave you that?" She looked at him, and he still looked angry, but as he gestured to his own cheek, she thought perhaps it was not at her this time.

She remembered the sting of the slap _Tyrek Lannister_ had given her. She remembered his foul words, his reeking scent of wine and cheap women, she remembered why she'd hit him. Gin had nearly thrown her out for that, insulting a Lannister, a member of the wealthiest family in Westeros, was something no business merchant wanted to do. But Tally had saved her from that, she'd spoken to her aunt and had gotten her to allow her to stay. She wondered where her friend was now. She hoped she was safe.

"Some foul urchin who was too bold. I bruised _him_ first." She answered with a touch of pride. "I think he was high born." The ghost of a smirk passed across her lips. Maeve hoped that toad _Tyrek Lannister_ knew now that just having a famous name didn't mean he was untouchable.

A small smile was Jon's reply, which made her heart ease back from the anger of their earlier words, but not entirely. Yes, he could see her slapping a high born lord across the face for arrogance. "Knowing you, he probably skulked off, ashamed and disgraced."

She smiled in spite of herself at the ease with which he spoke. "He did...after he was through throwing a fit. Did you just make a joke?"

"I guess I did. If you ever see him again, point him out." For a moment she felt a little warm inside, because he had implied that he would stay with her, defend her if needs be. But it faded when Edrick squirmed and cooed sleepily in her arms.

"We're not going to talk about it are we? Him." _Our son_, she added silently. _Or _my_ son, if fathering him shames you so. _

Jon's brown eyes lost their warmth, and were replaced with something she didn't understand. Something not quite sadness, and not quite anger. _How can we_, he thought. _Where do we even begin? And how? Gods tell me how!_ Jon had never thought he'd be wondering if he fathered a child, he never thought he'd want to. A bastard's life of shame, a bastard's life as a pariah was no life for an innocent child. Maeve and her son deserved a man who could give them things he couldn't.

The Maeve he'd known was no whore, she could never be. But a lot of things can happen to a woman on the road, and she _had_ been sent away for punishment. The idea was agony, to think that she had been abused so hideously and now carried some wretched little prick's bastard in her arms. He could not hate the child, he knew. He knew better than most that a child should not suffer the sins of its parents. He did not seethe out of disgust of her either—no, gods no, he could _never_ fault her for something out of her control, something that hurt her.

No, he was more disgusted with _himself_, for if such horrors had befallen her, he felt to blame.

Just the mere thought of her in such a horrid situation made him want to cast all his guilt and anger aside and rush to her, to take her in his arms and never let anyone hurt her again. Even if she slapped at him, screamed out her hatred and ordered him never to touch her again, he could not leave her. His mind flashed to that dream from weeks before, the dream where he ripped out the throats of the soldiers trying to rape her.

For just a second he remembered their screams of agony, and the taste of their blood and how good it had felt ripping them apart, and his wrath was calmed for a moment.

This second thought had grown in his mind weeks before—when he saw her in his dreams, belly round and swollen, touching it tenderly without even realising—what if that child were his? What if they'd made a son the day Theon Greyjoy caught them? The idea was _infinitely_ more welcome than the first, although frightening at the prospect of being a father. He looked down at him—down at _Edrick_—and wondered.

But knowing his name is enough for tonight, knowing the child is healthy is _enough_. Jon was too tired to think of much else, too tired to face the fact that she'd spent the last months heavy with child—_his_ child. He didn't want to think of her alone and frightened, pregnant without him to see her through it. _No_, he couldn't think of that. He wouldn't. Not tonight.

"It's been a long day. Go to sleep, Maeve. You need it." Was all he said. Maeve looked at him, her large steely grey eyes bleary with fatigue although she tried to remain awake. "Sleep. It's alright. I'll keep you safe. I promise."

The disgraced septa blinked at him twice more, wishing it could be as it used to be between them, wishing he'd just...just wishing it wasn't so hard to be with him now.

When Jon looked away again in favor of keeping watch outside the window, she looked away, her eyes burning once more. With great gentleness, she scooted down onto the bedroll, lying on her back with Edrick lying in the crook of her arm.

Her body throbbed and ached in ways she didn't know were possible. Even so, sleep came swiftly, and Jon still watched well into the daylight.

* * *

><p>When the smoke settled and the sun rose over the mountains, Garret Reyne stared out at the discord in the streets with far off eyes. Horses whinnied and bucked and raced left and right out of terror, and once or twice, he saw a limp body dragged behind it, broken legs still caught in the stirrups. Bodies had been piled away to the sides of the streets and the wounded and bereaved screamed far and near. His own wounds had been tended to, a healing salve spread over his mended shoulder to keep the rot at bay and milk of the poppy dulled his pain wonderfully.<p>

But it was not the dull ache in his shoulder, the noise, the stench, the death...it was Garret's own mind that caused him discomfort as he sat there, on the back of an over turned cart.

His uncle had _lied_—the man, who had raised him like one of his own sons, had _lied_ to him. Deceived him. _Betrayed_ him. That small fact hurt a _little more_ than the vengeance his uncle's lies had stolen from him.

His uncle—his mother's brother, Lord Ronald Ryger—had told the king that he'd turned his back on his oath to the Tully's with good reason. He'd pleaded with the Young Wolf that he hadn't come to fight for him because he'd been taking oaths from the western lords. Now was the time to exact ruthless, merciless vengeance on the Lannisters—while they were weak, when their forces were scattered to the field, when their reputation was irrevocably damaged by the whore queen and her dishonourable brother. It was _perfect_.

It was as if the gods themselves had devised this perfect lay of events which would lead him to mounting Tywin Lannister's ugly head on a spike.

Garret had waited half of his life for this—most of his life really. Every day since Castamere had been put to the torch, he'd imagined Tywin Lannister's face in each sparring partner, and each time he'd knocked them bloody into the mud he thought of his sisters and of his mother. Every time he earned a scar or bruise in the yard, he vowed it would only make him swifter, Every time he missed a lunge or stab, he swore it would make his blows harsher and more practiced the next time. Each city they took was another step closer, and to know his own _uncle_ had tried to ensure that the army with which he would accomplish such a task would be crushed, twisted a knife inside him. Surely, Lord Ryger knew that by doing this, it would surely mean Garret's demise as well...the thought pressed the knife deeper.

His lord uncle had gotten the petitions; he'd seen the signed scrolls himself. He'd seen the Lord's heirs to their tents when they arrived at camp as assurance to King Robb that their father's would not attack.

He'd seen the men in Lannister colours _attack_ them when they had supposedly vowed not to. Vows were as meaningful as a candle in the wind, fickle, and ready to gutter out at the slightest breeze.

He watched as a small band of north men robbed the bloodied carcasses of their enemies—taking boots, armour, swords, gold—whatever they could. _Like a pack of wolves,_ he thought.

It had all been a falsehood. The surrender of the West, the promise that the lords would help them to take Casterly Rock and overthrow the monstrous fools who governed over them had all been a farce. One his uncle had been privy to.

_Why_, he wanted to know. Not how, or when. Only _why_. The Lannisters had killed his uncle's sister, his niece and disposed of their bodies by throwing them into the sea after hanging them above the gates of Casterly Rock for the rest of the summer. Why would his uncle help them? Was he mad, or did he hate his sister? Did he not care for the horrors that had been leased upon them, or for the way the Lannisters had savaged them? Perhaps the love of an adopted son was but a small, worthless thing compared to gold and position. Garrett clenched his fists, although his left shoulder meekly throbbed at the action.

He was alone now, he knew. There was no one else in the world he could turn to for companionship. His sisters were dead, his mother and father too. The world thought _he_ was dead. The last red lion was a lone one, and when he died, the name _Reyne_ would truly fall into the history books.

The squelching sounds of boots sinking into mud met his ears, and for a long moment he didn't pay much mind to it, since there was _a lot_ of boots squishing into the mud, and screams and orders and jabbering on top of that. But those boots kept moving closer...and closer...and closer.

Garret Reyne's steel grey eyes flashed up to the left of him, and his hand twitched, wishing he had not lost his axe in the battle.

"Garret, my boy, I did not know! Gods help me I did not know!" Lord Ryger babbled with a look of horror on his face. The young man was unmoved—all people lied, except others were a lot better at it. His uncle could be a king with how believable his dismay was.

Garret stood, wrenching away from the overturned cart and stalking towards his short and soft uncle. His uncle was old, in his sixties, and the years had made muscle turn to fat and cunning skill with a blade become lax and poor. He could kill him easily, but the thought made a shame filled wave come over him. He loved his uncle...he'd raised him really, alongside his cousin Dickon who he had fought with, played with, who somewhat filled the hole in his heart where his sisters once occupied. Lord Ronald...he'd never allowed Garret to forget his poor lady mother, or his poor little sisters. He had been his father for longer than Eli Reyne had, and Dickon had been his brother since the day he arrived at Willow Wood—his uncle's seat.

But a rage he'd only ever felt for Lannister's arose inside him, because he remembered his uncle had betrayed him, making the pain all the worse.

Lord Ronald paused and stared at his nephew, his face baring the terror rising within him.

"You _lied_ to me; nearly every day of my life," Garret hissed, taking a step forward. "You told me I would have vengeance" step "for what the Lannisters did to my mother," step "to my _sister_ and father. To my home. And you." step "You betray me. You _cheated_ me."

"Wh-what? No! Never!" Garret's steps paused, but if he was swayed, he did not show. He only stared at the man but a few steps before him, his eyes hard and unforgiving. They looked at one another for a long moment, until his uncle seemed to gain a bit of composure and stood straighter. "No, I did not, I swear on Dickon's life. I loved your mother! I loved you and your sisters. Hearing what happened to sweet little Aleia, and Maeve she was just a _babe_, I—"

"Don't even _speak_ their names! They were _my_ sisters. I lost one because I let go of her hand and I lost the other when her _wound_ festered. I lost them because..." _of me_. "Because of _them_." He kicked at a severed arm near his feet, clothed in Lannister crimson, the blood invisible in the revolting fabric. _I_ _was the eldest, I was their brother. I was meant to protect them, and yet I am all that's left_. "I deserved my revenge against those _evil fair haired shits_, and you _stole it from me!"_

His uncle fell to his knees, his fine velvets dirtying in the mud and blood as he hobbled towards him on his knees, his arms stretched up towards him, imploringly. Garret bit back a flicker of doubt. _He betrayed me_, he thought. "Never! N-never, my son—"

"I am not your son, I _never_ was—" although so many times he wished he was, if only it meant forgetting that terrible night where he lost everything.

"—I loved them, your mother and sisters. _I love you!_ You're all I have left of Violet, you're just like her." he tried to touch Garret's hands, but the man wretched them away, staring down at his uncle with furious eyes, full of hurt. Lord Ronald pulled his crooked hands back, and looked down at his nephew's dirty boots. "I was sickly as a boy, you know? All the other boys would never play with me, but Violet, my sister, she always did—"

"Yes, yes, I've heard this story a thousand times! Is it supposed to make me pity you?" demanded the auburn haired man.

"_No_! I never wanted pity. But trust me when I say I wanted this just as badly—!"

"Trust you?" Garret huffed breathlessly. Trust...who was there to trust? The northerners who didn't even believe his claim? The Tully bannermen who had not fought to protect his family? The Western lords who were akin to snakes in the mud? No. No one could be trusted and those who would help him did not do so for the sake of his justice. "Trust? A pretty idea that gets lesser men killed." Lord Ryger seemed to flinch. "You lied to me and plotted to have Robb Stark killed in battle. You planned for me to die here, didn't you?"

"I did not!" his uncle protested.

"Those hostages the Western lords sent are not even their sons, are they?"

"I saw to the negotiations myself! _I_ was the one to convince the westerners that supporting the Lannisters was a horrid idea! They were _sickened_ at Castamere, they feared the Lannister's above everything. I told them, '_now is the time, now is the time to do away with those false lords—!_'"

"Then why did your plan go up in a puff of smoke? It seems you weren't very good at convincing."

Lord Ryger looked up at his nephew, his eyes wide and pleading as a child's. Garret nearly faltered and looked away, ashamed. He looked out at the ugly scene of the Stark wolves as they savaged discarded corpses, paying no attention as they plundered the city that now belonged to them. "I cannot say for sure, right now, if only you gave me time!"

"Your hesitation betrays you uncle. Go. Run _fast_ and _far_. King Robb will be calling for your head soon enough for your treachery and I do not wish to see your head on a spike. For the sake of Dickon, who is dear to me. I give you this chance to flee." He looked at Ronald, his heart squeezing inside him. This was his father, his flesh and blood. And he'd cheated him out of the one thing he'd ever really wanted. In that moment, Garret hated his uncle. "Go."

He did not see him go, he couldn't. So before Uncle Ronald could make the first step, Garret backed away, and faded into the crowd.

* * *

><p>Jon hadn't intended to fall asleep, but as the sounds outside quietened little by little, his eyes drifted shut. And after what felt like a few moments, he was startled awake by the strangest mewling sound he'd ever heard. As the dim grogginess of sleep lingered over him, the former Watchman tried to discern the soft sound. A bird? A kitten? It sounded small and vulnerable—<p>

His world spun a little when he sat up, poor, exhausted Arya simply rolling over and curling up once more. His eyes remained settled on the lump curled beneath the uncut rolls of silk and cotton, a curled head of auburn lying on another roll, while her newborn son stirred beside her, in the crook of one of her arms. He blinked as she turned her head to the side, once again showing him that yellowing mark, the faintest hint of scar hidden beneath. If she ever pointed out who did that to her, he would give them a bloodied nose.

He squinted at the boy, studying him as he wasn't able to the night before. He was small, just a tiny little thing, puffy and red, a thin brush of soft black hair at the crown of his small head, as small blue eyes blinked sleepily. His impossibly small fingers flexed against his face. He cooed in the softest voice Jon had ever heard, and then grunted in a voice that seemed too loud for such a small thing. Maeve murmured in her sleep, and pulled the child closer to her side.

Such a sight made his chest ache. When he'd first been with Maeve, sometimes he'd think of what this would be like—sleeping beside her, making love to her every night in a warm feather bed, waking up with a face full of her tangled curls, walking in the daylight without care of who seen them.

He wanted it to be true, so badly. He wanted to be the boy's father, wanted to raise him, and teach him how to be a man. He didn't want his—Maeve's son to be called bastard. Edrick had a father. _He_ could be his father.

Jon blinked and looked away from the child. It shamed him to consider that another man could be the child's father. He could not believe that Maeve would give herself to another man so soon after being forcibly taken from him. No, she was too honourable for that—as honorable as a turn cloak septa can be. She was too good. She would never. She was not weak like he was. He remembered that night with that tavern girl, and a beat of shame moved through him. _It wasn't_ _disloyalty_, he thought. _We weren't together_. Somehow, that made him feel much worse.

He dared a look back at Edrick when he cooed again. It almost felt wrong to look at the baby, as though he hadn't a right when he hadn't been there to protect his mother. Still, curiosity could not be denied. Handsome little lad, he noted with a smile. Strong lungs too. He wondered if he was heavy and was struck with the urge to hold the boy, although when he held the baby Maeve had helped care for during her days as a septa, he had been terrified of hurting the boy, he'd ended up making him cry. He wondered if he had that soft skin everyone raved on about babies having, he wondered if he looked like his mother up close, or if he could see a reflection of himself in that young face. His fingers twitched.

His brown eyes traveled from the child's blinking face, to his mother's, his chest tightening as he observed her. She was so pretty, still so lovely to him, dirty and bloody. High graceful cheekbones, pink lips, high arched brows, long curved nose, wayward curls brushing her skin...but he could still see the imperfections marked on her skin: a long scabbed line on her neck, a white line of a scar on her cheek (he remembered when that elder septon had struck her that last day so hard her skin split), and blood on her hands, a long painful looking gash on her palm.

He would fetch her a maester—

The baby suddenly gave a loud cry, his little face scrunching up as his toothless mouth opened wide. Maeve's body jumped; her face scrunching up as her bleary eyes tried to blink into focus. Jon turned away, back to looking outside through the bottom corner of the window. It was quiet outside, half a dozen bodies lying in messy heaps in the mud.

"Ed-Edrick?" Maeve mumbled groggily. "Jon?" he heard her pause, and he could feel her eyes searching his form. "Oh thank the gods." She whispered.

Faintly, he heard the old familiar rallying cry of his brothers in arms in the distance: _"King in the North! King in the North! King in the North!" _

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><p><strong>Soooo...Do you think Lord Ryger intentionally screwed Garret over? <strong>

**Review review review My lovelies! **


	25. Chapter 25: Say Something

I'm BA-ACK! Hello, so here's chapter 25 for you ;D

I got 10 reviews! and I loved every single on of them and every single one of them helped me hack through this chapter

I hope you enjoy it!

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><p><strong>Chapter 25 Say Something<strong>

The cold had come in the wake of the battle, icy winds and darkened clouds stretched overhead with breath freezing in the air into white puffs of smoke. In this war it was easy to forget that winter was coming for them and that, for their northern homes, it had already come with ice and snow.

It as though the gods themselves were displeased with the turn of events—from Lord Eddard Stark's death to now, with all the horrors in between. Perhaps it was the folly of the western lord's betrayal why they now feared the inconvenience of sleet or snow, or mayhaps the men who'd burned the sept into charred black stone and melted gold were to blame. But mostly, the northern howlers talked of how the gods were angry that Robb Stark had been injured in the fray.

In the castle at the base of a mountain—half mountain, rough and hard and untamed, half manmade fortress with smooth marble walls and high, square towers—Robb Stark lay in the unseated lord's bed, his wound being tended to by every available healer and maester his men could fetch. It was to the end of the battle that an arrow had found its mark between the vulnerable creases of his armour. His great wolf had ripped the man who'd shot his master apart, tearing and clawing in a wild rage, until every limb was scattered to pieces.

Their king was wounded, the son of their murdered lord—their hope of independence threatened. Grey Wind refused to leave Robb's defenceless body, but when the healers tried to work, the animal reacted furiously, growling, and had bitten one of the healers' arms off already. The bloodied appendage and the shrieking man it belonged to had been taken from the room.

The lords had silently agreed then, that the animal had no place inside the sickroom, terrifying the already quivering healers and maesters from doing a proper job. Grey Wind, restrained by sticks and chains, had been pulled from the chamber as soon as enough men were found, howling and tearing at his captors. Three men had been mauled taking the beast away, and none of the healers inside the chamber had been allowed to tend to them.

The Young Wolf slept, deep and undisturbed by the commotion he'd inadvertently caused—milk of the poppy fogging his dreams and deafening his ears. There was no pain for him, as horrible and ugly a wound it was. And it was serious, the arrow embedded so deep, one of the maester swore he felt bone scrape as he removed it. The king's generals had rallied around him, and the chamber was filled to the brim with loud, dirty men, and big bruiting bodies incapable of gentleness or tact, useless in this delicate situation.

They fought like animals, fear and anger and doubt making their tongues loose and their words angry. At the start, shouts had been directed at healers, but as they jumped and slipped at every loud threat of maiming from one of the lords, the burly men began to shout at _each other, _the fear of their cause dying out fuelling their barbs.

"The king will die!" one high lord yelled. He was at once drowned out by affronted cries.

"Treason!" one voice shouted in reply.

"Treason to speak the truth!?" a differed voice screeched.

"His Grace is strong." One healer said gently, his voice lost in the rising brawl.

"Who will continue the campaign!?"

"Damn you, man! Our king has a flesh wound!" one of the higher lords replied. Just as quickly as accusations of treason and treachery had started, shouts of who should be the Young Wolf's heir arose.

They said he was immortal, that the King in the North was the god's champion, and would never allow him to die, and until today, his generals had believed him untouchable. The Young Wolf was without an heir, his marriage-bed promised to one of the Frey daughters he would meet, wed and bed once the war was over. All through the war, the northern king had been so focused on battle that nary had a lovely wench warmed his bed. And so, the northern howlers now feared their king's demise without a legitimate heir to take up crown and sword when he was gone.

The younger Stark boys were Robb's official heirs until such a time, but Bran Stark was a cripple and Rickon was a babe. Neither was suitable to be leading an army into battle. Still, there were shouts for Bran Stark to continue his brother's work, for he was still a wolf, with Stark blood. Other names arose in the chaos. Lord Bolton and Lord Umber's names were the most common. But none of these names inspired as much loyalty, or as much hope as Robb's name had. Before any heir of his, they would follow King Robb Stark into the midst of battle.

"Vultures!" someone cried in rage, hand on the pommel of his sword. "Our king still lives!" his voice came through the wash of voices like a sewing needle—felt, but not too noticeable to make them hush.

One healer, a woman with a scarf pulling her hair back and out of her face, gripped her little sack of healing herbs tightly around her fist. She'd had quite enough of these big brutes invading the chamber, screaming things left and right, hindering their efforts to heal the king they claimed to serve.

In her time learning to be a healer, she'd never tended a king before. Of course, then there had only been one and he was all the way down in King's Landing. Kings were everywhere now, and she'd never thought a girl like her would ever serve under a king without the name Baratheon. She'd been the second daughter of a low lord, and had begun learning under the steady eye of her family's maester. Just a year ago she had been stitching up wounds obtained by kitchen and butcher knives. Now she tried to soothe burns, stop endless bleeding, and amputate rotted limbs from living men.

She was angry, that these men could and were currently, making such a precarious situation all the worse. But she was silent. She could not speak out unless she wanted her tongue ripped out for insolence. There were rumours over how stern this king and his men could be. The king had had his _own brother_ thrashed barely a year ago for wrongdoing. She was afraid of these men, but not of what they would do to her. She feared what they would do to _each other_ if this went on.

But there was one lord who knew this chamber would be filled with more severed limbs should the arguing go on any longer.

Lord Umber growled low in his throat. He believed himself the most loyal of all the generals—he'd lost his fingers to his king's wolf when he first spoke with him, had council with him, he'd bled for him many times in battle, and had shared meat and mead with him countless times. After his old gods, Robb Stark commanded the most loyalty than anything else in this world. If his king died, the whole campaign died, and they would scatter to their holdfasts, waiting for the day the lions recuperated and hunted them down for treachery.

"Shaddup!" he bellowed into the room, his roar quieting the commotion it the room to a murmur. "Out! _All of you!"_ some of the lower lords eyed the chamber door warily, while the elder lords eyed him defiantly. He fought with these men, knew them, bled in the mud with them. But they gave up too easily. They would argue amongst themselves, while their king bled. This latest betrayal, which had resulted in an unexpected battle in Golden Tooth, had made them all wary. Punishment could be dealt out later, now they needed calm.

Even he, arguably the boldest lord in all the north, knew this.

"His Grace needs his men," Lord Bolton stated, his voice as smooth and calm as ever.

"My lords," a quiet, timid voice came from the side of the bed. Sharp eyes turned to the source, finding a small woman, knelt down beside the bed, her hair pulled back by a scarf, a peek of brown hair showing under it. She looked up at the burly lords as the other healers around her worked. When she met Lord Umber's eyes, she quickly moved them to their feet. "Forgive me, but we need space to work. To guarantee His Grace's recovery, we must...we must have quiet."

Her words gave the men pause and halted their growing hostility in the mean time. "And do the rest of you agree?" Lord Glover addressed the other healers.

After a moment's hesitation, they nodded and one old maester squeaked "Yes, my-my lord!"

The sickroom was silent for an endless moment, the lords exchanging similar looks of wariness and thought, the healers trying to shakily resume their work and make themselves as small as possible. Finally, a few lords collected themselves and nodded in affirmation to Lord Umber. In response, the lesser lords nodded too.

"Keep two guards for every healer that enters this chamber. Anyone that attempts to murder our king will be strung up and flayed for treason." Lord Bolton said his voice cold and biting as ice. The healer who's spoken out shivered, biting her lip.

"Agreed then?" Lord Umber asked the room. Once more, the lords nodded, none of them looking particularly pleased in being ordered out like children. Still, for their king's sake, they could take their quarrel outside.

The lords began to leave, much to the relief of the healers, but Lord Umber remained. He remained until twenty-eight guards filled the room, two for every healer and maester left to the king. He watched the woman with the scarf, brows furrowed as he observed her speak gently to another healer. How had she had the bravery to speak up to them? Was she a fool, or was she simply too bold? The Greatjon trusted no one, and now this woman would be added to that long list.

"You!" he pointed at her, her dark eyes wide as she stared at him. "You best make sure he lives, woman. Any tricks, they'll be no mercy for you." He warned.

"I don't specialize in tricks, my lord." She replied, her eyes set on the floor once again. "Healing is my job and what I am good at." _Maybe_, she thought, _if you were any good at yours, the king would not lie abed with extra holes in him_.

"Look at me." She did, but reluctantly. His cold eyes pinned her where she was, and a rush of fresh fear slid down her back. "What's your name?" he growled.

"Jeyne, my lord." _And __just__ Jeyne. He'd murder me here if he knew my last name_. Thankfully, he didn't ask.

"The king dies, and yours is the first head I'm coming for." He threatened.

Jeyne nodded fearfully.

* * *

><p>As Maeve blinked the last lingering touches of sleep from her eyes, Edrick snorted and whimpered, tiny little mewling sounds that made her heart ache. The events of the night before came to her suddenly in vivid succession—the pain, Tally's hands gentle on her back...the horrors of birth, and two wrinkled septas delivering her son and setting him into her arms. She remembered the unrivalled fear of being butchered, the feeling of being trapped with only a pathetic clay shard as protection. And then suddenly she'd had Ghost there before her, her friend and savior on the road, sniffing at her son and licking his tiny foot.<p>

She remembered Jon suddenly being there, and wondering if she'd gone mad at last. Looking at him now, her face pulled into a stern expression, Maeve felt quite sane, if not a little weak and tired. She pulled her baby up in her arms, hushing him gently. Unknowingly, she inspired memories in Jon, ones made so long ago it felt like another life.

"You're still slow to wake." Jon said, mostly to himself, half listening to the rallying cries of his brothers in arms in the distance. Maeve heard him, and sent him a quick look as she settled back against the table leg behind her, wincing ever so slightly. The birthing bed had left her sore and bloody—_the price of a healthy child_, she thought as she looked down at the baby in her arms. Even now she could feel the wetness of blood between her legs. She wanted to sleep more, but she couldn't.

But she wouldn't complain. She was alive, and last night she'd been afraid she and her son wouldn't live to see the sun. They were _alive_. Joy danced in her heart, beautiful and lifting. But beneath this cloud of unimaginable relief, there was a part of her that feared Jon leaving once again. She was afraid that by seeing her son—_their_ son—he would leave them.

She was ashamed at this—she'd survived when he left her before, she'd survived all on her own, and had a healthy baby boy to show for it. She could survive again, somehow. She could do it and _had_ done it. But...she didn't _want_ to be alone again. She didn't want to be lonely; she was tired of simply surviving, day to day, all her time consumed with things that gave her no real joy. She wanted to _live_, to be happy and taste joy on her tongue. She wanted to be happy, and Jon had made her happy once.

"I've gotten better at it in the last few months." She murmured back, sleep still in her voice. Jon bit his tongue. He feared to know what had forced her to adapt such a feature. He looked down at the baby she held, and quickly looked back up at her. Her hair was even more of a mess than when she'd gone to sleep, Jon noted. It would almost be funny if she was not in a blood stained dress.

He glowered at the stains—still red as the blood had not dried completely yet. He would find her a maester soon, and would not rest until he found one. He didn't care if he had to pull one off some dying soldier to do it. Maeve _had_ to stay healthy, stay strong. The boy in her arms needed her above all else.

"Have you slept at all?" she asked gently. In her arms, her son grasped at her finger and squeezed tight. She pulled her eyes from his sweet little face, and back up to his father's. Quickly, Jon looked away from her and back out the window, not wanting to be caught staring.

Mae eyed him. He didn't look at her, and her belly tightened.

"A mite." He replied simply. Maeve frowned thoughtfully.

"What's happening out there?" she asked after a moment.

"It's quiet. Soldiers have configured farther away." Again, he was civil, feeling detached from his tone. This bothered her—no it angered her actually. Surely two people who knew each other so intimately would be better at speaking to each other? Or did they no know each other anymore? The thought made her sad, but not surprised. He was probably ashamed to look at her, ugly, and bloody as she was.

"Good. More soldiers bring more trouble." She replied half-heartedly.

"Yes." He agreed, returning his eyes to hers, his eyes guarded while hers were open and heavy. "I will find you a healer—"

"And do you plan to come back?" she asked. She pulled Edrick closer, earning a little sleepy coo from the babe.

He didn't hesitate. "Yes." Her eyes remained unbelieving. "I will leave once Arya wakes. She will stay with you."

For a moment, Maeve took no notice of the name. Jon would leave when the girl woke up, and she feared he wouldn't return—either by choice or by some soldier, still taken with bloodlust. But for some reason, the word Arya remained in her head, repeating _AryaAryaAryaArya_, some far off memory coming to life at the sound of that name.

And suddenly it occurred to her—Jon's familiarity with the girl, the way she stayed close to him and her name. He'd talked of her often back at camp with both pride and grief in his voice, as the constant knowledge she was lost, weighed on him. Maeve had been almost jealous of the bond between them, having never known something like that in the life she remembered. The brothers and sisters she'd gained in the sept had been momentary, fleeting. Not many children brought into the sept who intended to become either septa or septon, lasted very long under their stringent rule. Many children would leave, believing a life as a beggar was better, and in some ways, it must have been.

"Arya...your sister?" she asked quietly. She feared this girl was not his sister, and that saying the name may bring him pain or make her look the fool.

His brows rose and for a moment he was quiet. When he did speak, it was with a quiet sort of surprise in his voice, a welcome change from the detached answers he offered. "You remembered her?" he hadn't thought she'd remembered their conversations from so long ago.

"Yes." She remembered everything he'd said. "I thought she was a hostage." she replied, relieved.

"Not anymore. I just...found her." He looked to the sleeping girl beside him, a grin pulling his lips up. She wondered if he could ever smile at her again.

"I'm happy for you, truly, I am." She meant it—he loved his sister, and had always hoped he would see her again someday. She could see it when he spoke of her, the love that was left silent, which fell down into the marrow of his bones. He had never said as much, but when he did speak of her, his demeanour changed, and then he was silent, pensive and looking like he'd swallowed a bee. "What will you do now?"

He shrugged. "Return her to her mother and search for Sansa next." So simple, so straight forward.

She let out a huff. "Surely you're happy to see her?"

He was quiet. No words could explain what he felt just then.

For a long while, it was silent, Edrick once more falling asleep nestled safely in her arms. She stared down at his sweet little face, marveling once more at how something so good had come from a situation so unseemly.

And, it seemed, he'd come into the world and was suddenly forced into a situation that was just as difficult. He was a baby, an innocent little creature, and didn't deserve it. Without thinking, she opened her mouth, feelings of hurt and grief and a sad realization flowing through her, needing to be put to words before it was too late, and she was never again able to articulate them.

"We don't know how to talk to each other anymore, do we? It's been too long and the last we saw each other was under the heavy stares of revulsion." The man across from her sighed, his head tilting forward to look at his hands clenched together, elbows resting across his drawn up knees.

_No_, he thought. _The last time I saw you was on the road, when you were heavy and I brought you a rabbit for dinner. When I was a wolf_. Those had been dreams, he had thought, dreams cropped up from longing for a woman he'd never again see. But she'd been pregnant in those dreams, and as she held a newborn infant right before him, he was doubtful that those had been _more_ than dreams of longing.

He wanted to tell her how badly he'd missed her, how he'd wanted to go after her, but that by the time he'd woken from a heavy poppy milk stupor, she'd been gone for days. He wanted to tell her that he still loved her, that he still wanted her. But he did not know if she felt the same, did not know if she'd come to hate him in her time away from him. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for, ever touching her, ever loving her, ever setting eyes on her, because if he hadn't they would not have been judged guilty and punished.

But he could not find the heart to say these things, could not find a way to word it in a way that suited what he felt. There would be time later, he thought to himself. He'd nearly died the night before, countless times actually, and he'd survived to find both his sister, and his former lover in under an hour.

"I nearly died last night." He finally managed, still looking at his hands. "A soldier, he had me on my back and raised his hammer up high." His heart beat faster at the memory. "I thought it was the end. I thought I'd never see you again. I thought I'd never tell my brother that I didn't blame him—not really—for sending you away. I thought I'd die...without seeing my sisters again, without Robb knowing I didn't hate him. I was going to die _alone_, in the middle of a fray." His hands began to shake from being squeezed together so tightly, and his throat felt tight. He didn't even know why he said these things, he could have gone on being silent, let her say what she would, think what she would. But somehow, the words kept flowing as the memories battered around in his head.

True, he had faced death many times before, but he'd never looked it in the face.

"But then Ghost..." he sighed. "Then Ghost knocked him off, ripped out his throat. How am I to handle this? Is this what you wanted to hear? You want to hear _this?_" he looked back up at her, fearing the look in her eye. But what he saw could not compare to any imagining of his. Her eyes were watery, her skin paler and her lips drawn into a tight line. He felt the crease between his brows soften.

He didn't think he'd ever told her about the battles he'd fought in before, and imagined the knowledge shook her as much as it did him. The last day he saw her in the camp, she'd looked horrified at the wound to his side.

He remembered how he'd seen her last night, after Arya forced his back at hearing the cries of a baby. She'd looked so _frightened_, such naked and terrible emotion was the only thing in her face. She'd expected to die as well, he realized painfully. By some random luck, or from some divine mercy, they'd found each other and managed to live to see another day. He thanked whatever gods there were for that.

Maeve looked up to the rafters to drive away the tears and when she spoke, her voice trembling. "Was that the closest you've ever come?"

"The closest I've ever _known_ I've come." He replied in a mumble.

"Those wolves are a blessing," she said softly, remembering how Ghost had saved her life, more than once while she was on the road. She almost said as much, but she didn't want to talk about the details of that terrible, awful night where she'd first seen the wolf again. Not to Jon. She never wanted him to know, but somehow she knew, eventually, the truth would come out. The mark on her neck was not easily concealed and if he planned on remaining with her, he would ask.

"Maeve?" Jon rumbled a moment later. Her grey eyes glanced up at him. "Is he mine?" and there it was, the simplest and most stabbing question he had to ask. He looked uncertain, almost as if he feared of her answer.

Maeve regarded him for a long moment, her eyes swirling with unreadable emotion, all the while unaware that every silent second which passed, doubled Jon's agony. She wanted to scream, to yell at him for even asking that. But she couldn't. Beyond all the hurt over such a question, she knew it had to be posed. A lot could happen and _had_ happened while they'd been apart, but he didn't know what.

"He is _every bit_ yours as he is mine. From the hair on his head, to the tiny toes on his feet." she replied. The soft sincerity in her voice tightened his heart, and a new kind of pain swelled inside him. It was a sweet kind of agony—filled with relief and horror, love and anger, fear and hope. It was the good that made the bad bearable. He could hardly manage a disbelieving smile that suddenly quirked up his lips, his eyes falling to the babe Maeve held.

He had expected it, hoped for it and yet it still struck him silent. It seemed laughable to say he'd half expected her answer.

When he vowed to the Night's Watch, he'd given up whatever future there was of him becoming a father, and gladly too. What could he offer a child, or its mother? What had they to inherit from him when he died? The answer was always a sad one, and he'd resolved years ago to never allow a child to live the life he had. A life of being shunned, reminded that you were the result of a night of disgrace, and a life of shame. But now, it seemed, another child would.

_Bastard_, he thought bitterly. Edrick was no bastard. He had a father, and would only be a bastard by name. He would marry Maeve and save her and their son from the shame. He would keep them safe, provide for them so they never knew a hungry day. He would allow them some time to readjust and tend to other matters first.

He stared at the babe, the confirmation swirling in his head and sunk deep into his bones. The baby—Edrick as Maeve had called him—would not live a life without knowing who its father was. _He_ was his father. Eddard Stark had not abandoned him when he learned he'd fathered a child not of his wife. Instead, Jon had grown up and learned to be a man by the best one he'd known. He would be present in Edrick's life, he resolved, as he hadn't been at the start.

With biting regret, he remembered once more that she'd spent months without him, pregnant and vulnerable. He didn't know anything really, about her life in their time apart, all the little facts or moments he could have shared with her as her belly swelled were lost on him. He hadn't the chance to keep her safe, or well fed or warm. She'd done all that alone. The months on the road had taken a toll on her, he knew as much. When he looked through his wolf's eyes, he'd seen how skinny she was, even though her stomach swelled far out. He'd seen how tired she was. And when she'd been pinned under that Lannister prick, he'd seen how vulnerable she was.

He'd even missed their child's birth, by mere moments it seemed, but still, it was an ordeal she'd had to suffer alone.

Never again, he resolved. Never.

Maeve had almost expected Jon to ask to hold the baby. She'd imagined a sweet kind of look on his face, one so obvious, she would cry and go to his side and everything would be as it was. But Jon was quiet, staring at their son with a far off look.

"He's a _baby_. He's nothing to be shamed over." She snapped suddenly. She would not have Jon thinking awful things about their little boy. She'd rather he leave her than look at her or Edrick like that. She looked down and adjusted the fabric Edrick was bundled in, almost as if trying to hide him from scorning eyes.

Jon's eyes snapped up at her, surprise colouring his features at her words. Had she thought him ashamed? He was, since he hadn't been there when she and their son had needed him. But ashamed of _Edrick?_ No, though part of him felt the inkling that he should. But he wouldn't be ashamed by his own son, even though the circumstances surrounding his birth were shameful. Although Jon knew he'd caused his father shame, Lord Eddard had never once acted ashamed of Jon.

He would be the same for his son, and hope that he grew into a good, honourable man, surpassing his mother and father's shattered honour.

"No he's not." He agreed. She looked at him with a frown, trying to read his face. "He's shocking, but not shameful."

Her face softened, her eyes losing their hostility but not their new shine from the tears gathering. Her lips were tight and pale. She looked down at the boy who still slept soundly as though the entire world were aright. "He is rather shocking." She agreed softly.

In the pale light of the morning, they said no more. There was little left that could be said, all the important things already spoken. Still, Maeve ached deeply inside her, pain left over from the birth and blood kept on between her legs. She knew the risks, knew childbed fever could set in if she were not seen by a maester soon. But Jon would leave in search of one as soon as his sister awoke, and so she saw no harm in keeping silent company with him a little while longer.

* * *

><p>Soooo, I hope you guys liked it :D<p>

please give me some reviews my lovelies :D


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